


In Our Bedroom After the War

by HurricanesatDawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Tragic Ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurricanesatDawn/pseuds/HurricanesatDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all unravelled with a text message. A series of text messages, really. It wasn’t terribly unusual of Jim to randomly send Sebastian on a job halfway across the world for an extended period of time. The conversation that came before it, though? Not so usual for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It all unravelled with a text message. A series of text messages, really. It wasn’t terribly unusual of Jim to randomly send Sebastian on a job halfway across the world for an extended period of time. The conversation that came before it, though? Not so usual for them.

 

_What would you do if I ordered you to pick up everything and leave? -M_

_What if it was a direct order? If I told you that it was leave or be shot in the head? -M_

_I'd disobey it. Because I couldn't leave you, or that job. If you really want me gone, you’ll kill me. -SM_

_What if I didn't want you dead? If I was trying to protect you? -M_

_I wouldn't care. I'd stand by you. I can protect myself. -SM_

 

Jim wasn’t really the type to deal in hypotheticals. You either knew exactly what he was planning, or you didn’t know anything about it. Sebastian really should have read the warning signs. He really shouldn’t have blindly trusted Jim when he said that none of it meant anything. The boss sent him on a week long job in Africa. Gave him a plane ticket and everything, made sure he left an hour later.

 

**_> <><><_ **

 

After finishing the job early, Sebastian flew back to London. He was tired. It had been a very long several days with no contact from Jim, something that always left him on edge and unable to concentrate properly.

He’d barely set foot into Heathrow before he was bombarded by the newspaper clippings, programs on the telly, people talking about the fake the detective and the unlucky actor that committed suicide together.

For the first few hours after hearing the talk of it, he uncomfortably laughed it off as another one of his boss’ tricks. Just another one his games to mess with people’s heads. Probably just needed to disappear for a while.

It was a few hours later that Sebastian finally got back to the flat and forced himself to go inside it to see. He still wants desperately to believe that none of it’s real, that it’s all just another one of Jim’s tricks. But as he walks through the door, the knowledge that all of it’s probably true starts to forces its way to the surface.

_‘No, not possible. This is ridiculous. Jim can’t possibly be dead. There’s no way that a man like him can die. Not like that, not in this way.’_

The flat is empty when he gets there, cold and damp as if it’s been left alone for days. He tries to shove it aside, to ignore the possibilities turning round and round in his head, shouting at him. The first room into which he goes after abandoning his bags in the living room is Jim’s bedroom. It’s Sebastian’s best bet for finding some clues as to the truth.

He’s hesitant at first, to open the door. Partially out of fear of what he might find. Partially because he’s never been allowed in there before. He doesn’t dare think of what Jim would say if he found out that Sebastian had been in there.

The bed sits in the middle of the room, like a focal piece, sheets clean, fresh, and perfectly laid across it. It looks like the work of a professional. A maid at an expensive hotel.

His eyes drift to the flash of white on one of the pillows. Darting into the room to get a closer look, he realizes it to be an envelope. Addressed to him.

He rips open the paper with shaky hands and reads it quickly.

 

_My darling pet. I know you tried so hard to keep it a secret from me, you didn't want me to know that you'd fallen in love with me. I respected your wishes and never said anything, partially because you were always my favourite. But also because it would have been hypocritical for me to judge you for such a thing._

_I won't lie and tell you that I loved you, because I did not. But know that if I had allowed myself the time, I would have fallen for you in the same way that you fell for me._

_So honour my memory. Don't die a worthless death. Live for me instead. Live knowing that you were the only that I ever came close to truly trusting. Carry on in my stead, make my empire everything it could have been if I'd let you rule at my side. Most importantly, don’t let the hatred you now feel for us both destroy you._

_James Moriarty._

 

Sebastian rereads it immediately, followed by a second and a third time, because it doesn’t seem to quite penetrate the utterly wrecked fog that decided to take control of his brain.

_‘It- no. It can’t be. Not possible. He cannot be dead. Bastard’s just fucking with me. But - no. Would he have used that against me?’_

Dropping to the ground and leaning against the frame of the bed, his eyes close and he tries to think. He tries to figure it out and understand what it all means. It can’t mean that Jim’s dead. It just can’t.

 _'Men like the boss don’t die like that. They just don’t. A man like him doesn’t get to die a nobody on some rooftop. People that die like that are forgotten in days. He can’t die such a meaningless death.'_  

It just doesn't make sense. None of it makes any sense at all. His entire world feels like it’s crashing down around him, and all he can do is beg silently for it to all be bad dream or a cruel trick to punish him for ruining things between them.

Sebastian cradles the letter to his chest and breathes in harshly, desperate for answers. Turning against the bed, he forces himself to crawl up onto it. He doesn’t care anymore that he’s ruining the blankets. It doesn’t matter. All that matter’s is the need to be close to Jim, surround himself in his smell. Just this once, he needs to do it just once.


	2. Chapter 2

As he drifts slowly back from sleep, his breath catches and he stiffens around the pillow in his arms. His eyes stay squeezed shut even as he tries to acclimatize himself to his surroundings.  
  
It smells like Jim.  
  
His cologne, it’s all around him, like a blanket. For the briefest of moments, he almost imagines having felt Jim’s arms around him in the night. The idea makes his heart beat faster and he struggles to remember. To recall what had happened the night before.  
  
And then he remembers.  
  
Jim’s dead.  
  
His eyes fly open and he lets out a dry, heaving sob. “No! You can’t- you can’t be dead!”  
  
He doesn’t get a reply, but it still hurts in those moments of silence. He can hear his heart beating out of his chest as he listens for something. It’s quiet, so very quiet in the flat. Quiet like the dead.  
  
He should get up. He knows this, he needs to get out of bed and do something. Anything. It doesn’t matter, as long as he does something.  
  
But he can’t. It feels like he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t function. Jim’s gone. Everything he ever knew, everything he ever had on to which he could hold. It’s all gone now with him.  
  
In a daze, he sits up, the pillow still clutched to his chest, still pressed under his chin. His head lowers automatically and he takes in a deep whiff, eyes fluttering shut as the smell of Jim consumes him again.  
  
He wants nothing more than to wrap himself around this scent, give up everything to it, let it take hold of him and never run away.  
  
With every sniff, every inhale, the scent fades just a bit. And yet he keeps breathing it in, more desperately each time. He keeps trying to take it and store it away so he’ll never forget.  
  
That’s what he fears so much right now, he fears that he might forget. Forget the way Jim would sometimes grace him with a hint of a smile. Forget the look on his face when he’d slick his hair back again after Sebastian would gently tease him about it when he got the nerve. Forget the timber of his voice.  
  
His head feels heavy, like it’s been stuffed full of cotton. He automatically curls himself back onto the bed, covering the side of his face with the pillow.  
  
He’s tired. So very tired.  
  
Jim’s name is the last thought on his mind before he loses himself in the black again.  
  
  
 _**> <><><** _  
  
  
The spoon clatters against the insides of the mug as he stirs the cream. He stares blankly at the cabinet and drops the spoon. His eyes go blurry for a moment and his ears start to ring.  
  
His vision clears and he jerks, the mug clatters to the floor with a faint crash. It breaks, shattering into tiny pieces. He stares down at them and tries to focus on what it means, on what’s wrong. There’s a piece embedded in his leg, just below the knee.  
  
He looks down and blinks. “Oh.”  
  
It doesn’t hurt, he might not have even noticed it if it weren’t for the blood trickling down his leg.  
  
He smiles faintly, dazedly, and reaches down to pluck out the piece. Lifting it up, he turns it over and over and stares at the pattern of blood on it. It’s actually rather pretty, more than a bit poetic.  
  
He hears a banging noise and he blinks.  
  
There’s shouting. People shouting his name, yelling at him to show himself and get on his knees.  
  
He slides gracelessly to the floor and raises his hands, closes his eyes as the men surround him. They pull guns on him, jab them into his shoulders as they shout threats. He can’t even hear the words. The buzzing is back, their voices swirl around him meaninglessly, and he smiles.  
  
It doesn’t matter anymore, so why should he care?  
  
They jerk his hands down and roughly cuff them behind his back. They pull him to his feet and drag him away from the kitchen, away from the flat.  
  
He still can’t bring himself to open his eyes even as he sits in the back of one of their police vehicles. There’s someone talking to him, voice gruff, annoyed but he doesn’t pay attention to it. They couldn’t possibly have anything of importance to say to him. Not now, not this week.   
  
He leans his head back and relaxes, focuses on the faint sting from the glass that he’d managed to get stuck to his legs while kneeling on the ground.  
  
He concentrates on the hint of pain and lets the world fall away, lets the buzzing and the black steal him.  
  
  
 **_> <><><_ **  
  
  
There’s another voice now, softer, gentler. Asking him something.  
  
“Sir? Sir? Are you all right, sir?”  
  
He opens his eyes slowly, looking idly at the owner. It’s a little blonde woman with a concerned smile on her face.   
  
His mind supplies that Jim would hate her on principle.  
  
He swallows hard and turns his head away, ignoring her.   
  
She huffs and asks him again a few times before finally giving up. “Fine, whatever. It’s not like I’m the only person in here that gives a shit about you. Well, Mr. Moran, best of luck in your case. You’re going to need it.”  
  
She leaves.   
  
He stares at the wall.  
  
He can hear Jim’s voice in his mind, swirling around his head. Words he’d never heard pass from the man’s lips, words that he’s never had directed his way.  
  
 _“My darling pet.”_  
  
 _“Darling pet. Darling pet. Darling. My. My darling. My darling pet.”_  
  
 _“I would have fallen for you in the same way that you fell for me.”_  
  
 _“Fallen for you. Fallen. Fallen for you. Fell for me. Fallen for you, you fell for me.”_  
  
 _“Make my empire everything it could have been if I’d let you rule at my side.”_  
  
 _“Rule at my side. My empire. I’d let you. I’d let you rule at my side. My side. My side.”_  
  
 _“Your side, Mr. Moran.”_   
  
He chokes and blinks back the wetness in his eyes. He looks up and sees the owner of the last words. It’s a pudgy guy in an ill fitted suit.  
  
Jim would have despised him without second thought.  
  
“I strongly suggest that you take my advice. I’m the only thing you’ve got right now.” His voice is nasally, like he’s speaking from the back of his throat  
  
Sebastian doesn’t say anything, just stares unblinkingly back up.   
  
He keeps talking, laying out words, talking about police and court cases. He says something about a trial, about Mr. Holmes scheme. How even though Mr. Holmes had created the whole thing, created a fake criminal empire and then killed Mr. Brook and himself, that the people hired to do ‘dastardly deeds’ to make it plausible were still being implicated.  
  
He wants to laugh at that, make a joke out of such a word choice, over the whole ridiculous idea of it. He knows what Richard Brook was. Jim had mentioned it offhandedly once when it was still in the works.  
  
If they want to take him for this, for his work, for his devotion to Jim, then he won’t fight it. He lived as Jim’s and he’ll die the same way. He doesn’t care who knows it.  
  
He stays silent. Lets the words wash over him.  
  
  
 _**> <><><** _  
  
  
Someone comes in later and points out his knees. She shouts something at the man talking to him, gesturing angrily about it.  
  
His tone turns slightly embarrassed, and more than just a bit spiteful.  
  
He sends for someone. They clean up his knees, patch him up.  
  
One of them says something about an infection.  
  
He doesn’t really care.  
  
  
 **_> <><><_ **  
  
  
He doesn’t know how long he stays there. The hours slide together, mixing nonsensically until they make it feel like he could have been there for an hour or a week.  
  
They try to make him eat, in between shouting at him. They give him water and the pudgy man tries to offer him tea a few times.  
  
He takes only the water, playing half heartedly with it as they stare at him.  
  
He barely pays attention to the things they say. Their words matter little. Either they’re going to put him away or they’re not. So why does it matter?  
  
The only thing he does notice is the winding up. Every time they come in, they seem more agitated. They try harder and harder to get him to speak, to listen, to pay attention.  
  
He’ll give them a vague, off kilter smile and wait for them to leave.  
  
They don’t seem to get it. They can’t seem to comprehend that he doesn’t care. None of it matters anymore.  
  
They keep at it for a while.   
  
Eventually they give up. They stop trying as hard. Their yelling is replaced by frustrated sighs and annoyed groans.  
  
One of them comes in while he’s being offered food. He doesn’t give it any mind, only half noticing his surroundings. The guy pulls the man talking to him to the side and they whisper together for a while.  
  
“Mr. Moran. It seems that…” Sebastian can practically hear him clench his fists and grind his teeth. “It seems there’s been a mistake. You were…in  _Botswana_ at the time of the events. You  _couldn’t possibly_  have been involved.”  
  
Sebastian looks up and blinks.  
  
“What I’m trying to say is…” He sighs, “We have to let you go. We…apologize for the inconvenience of your  _visit_ . And hope that you don’t hold it against us. We were only doing our jobs. Nothing personal.” He plants on a sharp, pasty smile, which is thoroughly unconvincing.  
  
Sebastian blinks.  
  
“Charlie here will escort you to the exit.” He gestures at the guy trying to make himself unnoticeable in the corner.  
  
  
 **_> <><><_ **  
  
  
They lead him back out , hands cuffed in front of him. They take him to the entrance and unceremoniously dump him there. One of them looks like he’s resisting the urge to spit on him as he takes off the cuffs.  
  
He sits down on the curb and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s unwashed, feels thoroughly greasy and disgusting.   
  
He doesn’t have his phone on him, he doesn’t know anyone in the area. He’ll pick a direction and start walking eventually.  
  
He shuffles his knees apart, crossing his arms over them, and resting his head in the space in between.  
  
He’s tired. He hasn’t slept. Not since the night in the flat.  
  
“Oi! Get in the car.”  
  
He ignores the words, not looking up until he hears the sound of a car horn being repeatedly hit. It’s a black car. One of Jim’s cars.  
  
He straightens, his shoulders going stiff as he stares wide eyed. _‘Does this mean that…’_  
  
“Mr. Moriarty sent me to pick you up. Said you’d be waiting out here for a ride. Are you going to get in the bleedin’ car or what?” The man looks about ready to give up and leave with him.  
  
He jumps up and rushes over to the car. “Moriarty? He- he sent you?” He throws himself into the back and leans up over the seat immediately to question the driver.  
  
“He left me a couple ‘a notes. Here, have ‘em.” Two pieces of paper are shoved in his face just before the man starts the car again and moves out of the lot.  
  
The one on top is addressed to the driver. It’s short and doesn’t say anything interesting. Just gives a time and place and says who to pick up.  
  
The second one is addressed to him.   
  
His hands shake as he opens it.  
  
  
 _“Darling pet,_  
  
 _You’ll have just finished being interrogated, if my calculations are correct. If I could have, I would have stopped that from happening. But my best option was the one I picked. I sent you away, I gave you an alibi._  
  
 _Some of them are smart enough that they won’t have fallen for my ruse. They’ll still sniff around you for a while. But if you’re careful and you don’t do anything stupid, they won’t be able to do anything._  
  
 _They have nothing concrete on you. I’ve destroyed your records. All people know you by is word of mouth now._  
  
 _I’ve left instructions for a few people. You’ll be able to pick up working again. But I meant it when I said that I wanted you taking over. You’re the only one I trust with my work now that I’m gone.”_  
  
  
He squeezes his eyes shut and almost crumples the paper in his fist. _‘No, no, he can’t. No please! No. Just-’_  
  
Steeling himself to finish, he opens his eyes again and takes a deep breath. It’s hard, knowing what words are going to come next. But he needs to see them. The car bumps over a pothole and he flinches as he looks for his place again.  
  
  
 _“And you’ll be good for me, won’t you, pet? You’ll follow my final orders to the last letter, and you’ll keep on track. Because I asked you to. Be a good boy and don’t forget that just because I’m not there anymore doesn’t mean that you can do whatever you want._  
  
 _There’s a package waiting back at the flat for you. Open it._  
  
 _James Moriarty.”_


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes to an insistent buzzing around his head. Swatting blindly at it, the noise jolts and then stops.  
  
Groaning under his breath, he shifts his body, curling into himself to escape the noise as it starts up again. He mutters something to himself with a sigh, opening his eyes slowly and staring up at the ceiling.  
  
The fly moving relentlessly around his head calmly lands on the tip of his nose. He stares unflinchingly at it for what could have been a few seconds or a few minutes.  
  
He finally bats at it again, frowning slightly when it flies out of reach before he can get it. Sitting up with a soft groan of pain, he rubs at his eyes, padding around with his free hand to find his phone.  
  
Once found, he squints at it, eyes widening as he recognizes the time. “Shit!” He groans, bringing the phone up to press against his face. It’s already late in the evening.  _‘Have I really slept most of the day away?’_  
  
Propping his arm on the sofa, he pushes himself up with a tired grunt, limping as he stumbles towards the kitchen. His lips are parched and he needs a drink more than anything.  
  
He’s about to press a beer bottle to his lips when he hears Jim’s voice echoing in his head.  _‘I hate it when you drink, Moran.’_  
  
His fingers clench around the mouth of the bottle before he lets out a snarl, “Fuck it.” He brings it up to his mouth again and tilts his head back to take a large gulp.  
  
The liquid burns going down his throat more than it should, and he coughs, forcing himself through it.  
  
Glaring at the bottle when he’s finished with it, as if it’s to blame for his troubles, as if it had slighted him by not being worth it, he sighs again.  
  
He’s half tempted to just throw the bottle across the room, to break it against the counter, to just shatter it. Then he looks down and lets out a helpless, bitter chuckle. The floor is still covered in the broken remains of what used to be a coffee mug, left over from earlier in the week. He’d only managed to avoid stepping on the pieces with bare feet by a few inches.  
  
  
 _**> <><><** _  
  
  
The noise of the french door banging against the wall startles him out of his thoughts, bringing him back to the sudden awareness of the sharp chill in the air. It’s the middle of September, he notes belatedly. It’s supposed to be cold in September.  
  
There’s a car alarm going off on the street below, sounding distant enough to only catch the edges of his conscious mind.  
  
He shivers, his bare arms unused to the cold, not even embarrassed by his bodily reaction. The idea of returning inside after who knows how long, even if only to grab something warmer barely passes through his head before disappearing again.  
  
In a strange way, it’s nice, being reminded that he’s alive. It’s quickly growing bitter, and he unconsciously pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging them tight.  
  
He can hear the tail end of a fight in the flat next door, the noise from their shouting creeping out through a crack in their door.  _‘Jim would’ve-’_  he cuts himself off, the thought too painful to finish for once.  _‘Jim would’ve, Jim would’ve, Jim would’ve. But Jim can’t. Because Jim’s fucking dead.’_  Almost starting, he realises that his fist is clenched and he’s been smashing it down on the wood underneath him.  
  
The fight seems to be over, replaced by stony silence. The only thing he can hear now is the heavy beating of his heart and a cat screeching in a back road somewhere nearby.  
  
The days are beginning to blur into each other. He hasn’t slept in who knows how long, unable to close his eyes that long under the stare of the video case sitting on Ji-  _his_  bed.  
  
He can only vaguely remember the day he raced home to see it sitting there, as if it belonged. He’d reached out for it without hesitation, his fingers running along the edges, his eyes wide at the uneven scrawl on it. Just one word. _‘Sebastian’_ .  
  
He was too scared to watch it on that first day. The idea of opening it to find more words, find Jim’s face, find something enough to leave him practically in tears. He’d been too scared then, and the longer he waited, the more mixed his thoughts grew. He wanted to see it, wanted to know, wanted desperately to understand. But the fear that it would only make things worse wouldn’t leave him.  
  
It was something about him that had been all too present for most of his life, though not a trait he’d ever thought he carried. It was something his mum used to do. She’d save the last of something until she’d replaced it. No one ever knew why, or asked. She would just rather have something she would never use, keep it forever, than have nothing left.  
  
It was that same philosophy, he’d realised within days. The fear of not having _something_  of Jim’s waiting for him was worse than assuming that, whatever it was, it would just make things worse.  
  
The reason he’d come out on the balcony, he realises, is that he was trying to take himself away from the temptation of giving in and opening the case.  
  
He still doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to break the seal, tarnish something Jim had left him, but he knows that he will have to eventually.  
  
Jim would be disappointed in him.  
  
There were so many things he’d done, not done, since Jim had died that would have disappointed his boss. He’d lost count, stopped wanting to keep track. The reminder wasn’t even enough to make him feel any more guilty than before.   
  
He can still hear Jim’s voice in his head sometimes. Telling him what a failure he’s been. Taking back the words in the letters.  _‘You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve me,_  anything  _of me.’_  
  
“I know I don’t. I never could.” He opens his eyes just in time to see the words in the air in front of his face. The exhalation of them present for long enough to surround him. He’s never believed himself deserving of anything Jim has ever given him. Which, granted, hasn’t been all that much. Unless you count saving his life, giving him a purpose, giving him someone to be, someone that would always seem to need him.  
  
“I wish-” he can’t say it, cutting himself off before the words even are finished in his thoughts. “I- I’m sorry.”  
  
Pushing himself up from the wall, he staggers, eyes closing to counteract the dizziness he’s feeling. He waits for it to pass, until he no longer feels like he’s going to vomit, before he moves back into the flat.  
  
He walks slowly, with a purpose, making his way to the bedroom where he’d left the case. At first, he stares at it, for more than a few minutes, before he can muster up the courage to timidly reach out. He’s almost afraid of hearing Jim’s voice snapping out at him, telling him to get the fuck away from his stuff.  
  
But it doesn’t come, and he has no choice but to finish reaching out, taking hold of it, almost cradling it in his hand as he brings it up into the air. The light from the lamp shines across it, flashing in his eyes, but he doesn’t wince.  
  
His eyes stay wide, staring, still looking at his name. “Sebastian…” he sighs, wishing to hear his name from Jim’s lips one more time. His given name, not his family one, or a pet name like was Jim’s wont.  
  
“A-all right.” He says it softly, his voice cracking on the first syllable. “I’ll watch you.”  
  
  
 **_> <><><_ **  
  
  
_“Good morning, pet. Sleep well?”_  Jim’s voice comes out rather tinny, appearing before his face does on the screen of Sebastian’s laptop.  _“Oh, what am I saying. Of course you didn’t sleep well. I bet you haven’t slept in days, let alone properly.”_  Jim smirks, as if amused by the antics of a puppy.  _“But I’ll forgive you for that, just this once.”_  
  
Sebastian stays as still as a rock in his seat, transfixed by the sight of Jim’s face again. They don’t have any pictures of him, not even on phones. Jim never allowed it. He never showed his face on camera unless he deemed it suitably important. In those circumstances, it was rarely with his real face.  
  
 _“You know just as well as I do that you lose more than half your capacity to function properly when sleep deprived. You’ve never been as good as me at giving up things like that. So stop pretending you’re me.”_  His words are accompanied by a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  _“So I’m going to say this once. After this video ends, you are going to order takeout, you’re going to eat it, and then you’re going to strip off all your clothes and fall asleep in my bed. Are we clear?”_  
  
“I-” Sebastian opens his mouth unconsciously to reply, more than ready to give a ‘yes, sir,’ without even realizing it. He snaps his mouth shut, covering it with his hand to hold back to dry sob at the reminder. Instead he nods slowly, eyes still trained on the screen.  
  
 _“Good boy,”_  Jim says after a pause, his timing exact down to the seconds. His face softens and for a fraction of a moment, looks almost sad.  _“A few more things. I’ve given you time to mourn like the pathetic little creature you are, which is only fair.”_  He sighs, rolling his eyes as he relaxes back into the chair, like it’s his throne.   
  
Sebastian jolts, suddenly realizing that he’s sitting in the same chair that Jim was. He filmed it at his desk.  _“Yes, pet, you’ve got it.”_  He doesn’t elaborate, and his eyes say something incomprehensible, before clearing away.  
  
 _“I’ve let you get away with doing nothing so far because I knew you needed some time to adjust and just plain mourn me.”_  Jim’s face scrunches up in what might be half an attempt at a light hearted grin, but it just flops, and he sighs again.  _“So tomorrow, after you wake up, you’re going to go out and hire a maid. You’re also going to arrange for regular food deliveries. The contact information is in the drawer, you know which one.”_  
  
“Ah- I-” Sebastian’s mouth falls open, his lips moving to form words that barely come out. “I-”  
  
 _“Hush, pet.”_  Jim somehow manages to throw him a scolding look, clicking his teeth together audibly. _“Don’t fight me on this. Not yet.”_  Lifting his hand, Jim waggles his fingers at the screen.  _“Goodnight, Sebastian.”_  
  
The screen goes black.


	4. Chapter 4

His whole body seems numb.  
  
There would be moments when he couldn’t feel his legs, or move his arms without them falling limply to his sides. It was hard to move his tongue, words felt hoarse and unnatural when his lips would try to form them to himself. He’d still whisper to himself sometimes, eyes closed, leaning against a wall, he’d mumble Jim’s name to himself over and over.  
  
“Jim Moriarty.  
  
“Jim Moriarty.  
  
“Jim Moriarty.  
  
“Jim Moriarty.  
  
“Jim Moriarty.  
  
“Jim Moriarty.  
  
“Why did you have to go, Jim?”  
  
Once, when he’d said it for what could have been an hour, until what little voice he could muster had just about died away, he could have sworn he heard the sound of Jim’s voice, whispering back at him.  
  
He couldn’t make out the words, only the sound, caressing over his head and filling his ears before trickling away.  
  
It could have been his name, might have been. It sounded a bit like someone--like Jim--was saying, “Sebastian,” and telling him something important.  
  
The way it felt when it happened was like a waking dream, delirious and empty. It sounded so wrong, like it must have been Jim and couldn’t have been him all at once. Sebastian had stayed loose and silent against the wall until it faded from his memory, the sound forgotten.  
  
Sometimes he’d still hear it, echoing in the back of his mind.  
  
“Sebastian. I’m so sorry, Sebastian.”  
  
He’d try to speak, to offer his own apologies, but they always fell flat on his dry, chapped lips. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t pretend that Jim was still there, that Jim would say that to him if he was.  
  
  
 _ **> <><><**_  
  
  
He watched the video what must have been dozens of times. Every time he saw it, it hurt more. An ache in his chest, this empty feeling like he was being swallowed whole by some parasite.  
  
“Emotion,” Jim would have spat out.  
  
 _‘Or would he?’_  
  
“Emotions will destroy you. So destroy them first.”  
  
It wasn’t that he’d ever heard Jim say something like that. It was just that it sounded like a Jim thing to say. He could so clearly imagine it, could almost figure what the look on the man’s face would have been as he formed the words.  
  
His face would have been filled with disdain. He would have spit out the words like they were some horrible poison of which he couldn’t wait to rid his mouth. Evil, disgusting, vile words, the type that Jim hated having to hear.  
  
Jim used to tear out words like that from his dictionary, the one he kept in the drawer of his bedside table.  
  
 _“You don’t get to say words like that, Moran!”_  
  
 _“Yes, sir.” Sebastian lowered his gaze, trying his best to look as repentant as possible for his mistake. He should have known better, he really should have. The boss had warned him more than once about using words on the list, and he’d forgotten._  
  
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ _they felt sickening now as the tumbled around in his head, churning his stomach to the point where he felt like retch._  ‘I’m so fucking stupid.’  
  
 _It shouldn’t be so hard for him to remember. Jim didn’t have all that many rules for him, and he almost always wrote them down or repeated them enough times for Sebastian to commit them to memory. So why did he forget? Why did he always forget?_  
  
 _“Something you’d like to say, Moran?” Jim rounds on him again, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Or are you just going to stand around like an ignorant buffoon until I put a bullet in your fucking skull?”_  
  
 _“I-” he closes his eyes, doing his best to even out his breathing and look calm. “I’m sorry, sir. I made a mistake, sir. I made another mistake. I can only hope that you’ll give me the chance to make up for it.”_  
  
 _Jim stops suddenly, no longer pacing across the floor. The look of rage melts off his face into something blank, and infinitely more terrifying. He cocks his head to the side, staring at Sebastian as if he’s never seen him before, as if he’s something new that he’s only just discovered._  
  
 _It makes Sebastian shiver unconsciously, wanting to flinch under the gaze. It feels startling like he’s being dissected slowly in his boss’ mind and put in pieces under a microscope as he’s examined for faults. For everything he’s ever done. Jim’s eyes are calculating, giving off the faint air that he’s weighing every single thing that Sebastian is or has ever done and deciding his value based on that._  
  
 _Sebastian wants to puke._  
  
 _He opens his mouth to say something, to apologise again, before flinching and bowing his head further. “Sorry, sir,” he murmurs, barely audible._  
  
 _Jim will probably kill him. On any other day, he would have tried something, anything to either fight with him until he’d talked him out of it, or just consider physically stopping it._  
  
 _It hurts to even think about doing something now. To even think about moving in any way until Jim tells him he can. There’s something about Jim’s eyes, something he’s seen before, but never had directed at him. It’s digging deep into his core and making his brain hurt, screaming at him that he’s wrong. That’s he’s foul and ruined, and that if he doesn’t wait for his orders, he’ll just be proving how utterly worthless he is. How much he doesn’t deserve to live right now, to breathe, to exist in his boss’ life._  
  
 _It hurts._  
  
‘I’m sorry, boss.’ _His mind chants,_ ‘I’m so sorry. Please tell me you can forgive me. Please don’t throw me away. I still need you, sir. Please.’  
  
 _Jim doesn’t say anything. His eyes never leaving Sebastian’s until his back is turned, he leaves the room without a sound._  
  
 _That last look on Jim’s face leaves Sebastian still frozen in place, not daring to move. He stands there for what could be minutes or hours, still waiting for his orders, and it isn’t until his knees are starting to feel weak that he takes shaky steps back into the rest of the flat._  
  
 _Jim isn’t there._  
  
 _The dictionary is. It sits with its pages torn, left open on the floor of the hallway. It’s open at the ‘S’, and Sebastian tries his hardest not to fall to his knees and hold it to his chest._  
  
 _It doesn’t mean anything._

**  
  
><><><   
  
  
**He wakes to the sound of beeping, persistent and perfectly timed floating towards his ears. It sounds like the monitors they use in hospitals.  
  
He opens his eyes.  
  
“Good to see you’re awake, sir.”  
  
A pretty blonde nurse is smiling down at him, her hands reaching to something he can’t quite see unless he were to strain his neck. The smile stays etched on her face as she fiddles with something, and her lips move again. It takes him a moment to catch up and hear the words.  
  
“...feeling okay today. We’ve had you on a lot of different things to see if there was something wrong. But don’t worry!” She sounds like she’s actually fretting over the possibility of him being upset. “There’s nothing wrong with your body! Well, I mean,” she bites her lip, hands stilling as she blinks at him. “Your electrolytes were terrifyingly low. You were also really, really dehydrated. Which is why we put in those.” **  
  
**Following her gesture with his eyes, he sees the multiple lines running through his arms. He twitches, first reaction wanting to reach out and jerk them away from his skin.  
  
“Hey, hey,” she seems to anticipate this, and tries to soothe him, smile back in place again. “Those are here for your benefit, not to hurt you!” Her simpering starts to grate on his ears and he grits his teeth, turning a glare at her.  
  
She flinches, eyes widening, and smile dropping away as she stares back at him. “I-s-sorry. I should- I’ll go get...Doctor Peterson.” With that she turns quickly, fleeing from the room.  
  
It’s an improvement, but not by much. **  
  
**It’s a new nurse that returns a few minutes later--a severe looking brunette--with a doctor in tow. He looks vaguely familiar, but the only real blessing is that he doesn’t scowl when he notices the lines Sebastian had ripped out and thrown on the floor.  
  
He’d tried to get out of bed too, but his head felt so weak that he almost fell over and landed on the floor.  
  
Sebastian lifts a challenging eyebrow at the two, just daring either of them to give him a hassle. She actually opens her mouth to say something, no doubt try and discipline him, but she’s hushed before she can.   
  
“Sylvia, please. It’s all right.” The doctor doesn’t smile, just tilting his head in interest at Sebastian, before carelessly dismissing his companion. “I’ll take it from here,” he waves her away with his hand, moving to approach Sebastian’s bed.  
  
“Good morning, Mr Moran,” he says, his voice curiously calm. “As little Angie might have mentioned, my name is Doctor Peterson.”  
  
He’s met with stony silence.  
  
Doctor Peterson shrugs, not seeming to be particularly concerned by Sebastian’s lack of interest. “I have a deal for you. And, before you say anything about fighting me on it and just taking my half of the bargain, you should know that if anything happens to me, then there’s no way for you to get it. I’m also the only one that can retrieve it for you.” He almost seems to smirk now, his eyes filling with a bit of mirth. “Have I caught your attention yet?”  
  
Sebastian almost says something, instead narrowing his eyes and continuing to watch the man with a distrustful look in his eyes.   
  
He shrugs, “The bargain is that you have to stay until the end of the week, possibly two, and let myself and the nurses help you back to full health. And,” he stops himself, holding up a hand to quiet the protest that’s so clearly forming on Sebastian’s lips. “In exchange for this. I have something for you. Given to me, I believe, by a man who’s an old friend of yours. James, he called himself. Told me about you, gave me an estimate as to when you’d be popping by for a visit, and left some instructions as to what I should do with you.”   
  
Peterson laughs a bit at this, apparently amused by the idea. “Payed me a very nice sum too, for keeping this off the books. Who am I to argue?”  
  
“I...” Sebastian doesn’t know quite how to respond for a moment, his heart clenching at the realisation that Jim knew. Jim fucking knew everything that was going to go down. He planned for it, planned for it all. He fuckin knew.  
  
“When?” It’s the only word that feels right on his lips, and it comes out stronger than he’d dared to hope. His voice is still husky, but it sounds like his own again. “When did you meet him?”  
  
“Why, I don’t rightly remember.” Peterson hums, having probably not pondered that before. “It was at least a good month ago. I’d almost forgotten about it when I got the news about you coming in. Shook me right by the strings. Thought I might have imagined the whole thing if it weren’t for the new house I bought with that money.” He laughs jovially, no longer looking contemplative. His face suggests that he might try and talk about his new house, and Sebastian cuts him off before he can start.  
  
“Let me see the instructions.”  
  
He sucks in a breath, looking suspicious of Sebastian now. “Why?”  
  
“Because if you want to earn that money, if you want me to stay and listen, then you have to prove to me that it’s really him.”  
  
“I- yeah.” He swallows slowly, then nods. “Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. I’ll have the papers sent down with your dinner. Which you will eat.”  
  
Looking slightly stern for a moment, he nods sharply, and dismisses himself. “Good day, Mr Moran. If you need me for anything, just let one of the nurses know.”  
  
 **  
><><><  
  
  
**

  *  **Address him as Mr Moran. Never Sebastian.**
  * **Remind him as many times as possible that whatever he does, you have something to hang over his head.**
  * **He will threaten to kill you at least once.**
  * **Do not feed him the blue jello.**
  * **He’ll threaten to kill the nurses at least a dozen times.**
  * **Do not offer him a sponge bath. Offer to carry him to one of the tubs I know you have on his floor so he can bathe himself. But do not offer to bathe him.**
  * **Do not talk to him like he is a child. He is smarter than all of you combined.**
  * **He will try and manipulate you.**
  * **Hello, Sebastian. Enjoying your stay so far?**
  * **Do not allow him any visitors aside, and do not allow him to leave the floor under any circumstances.**
  * **Install a guard in his room if necessary. He will hate it.**
  * **No matter what he offers you, remember the house you’re buying with my money. I can have that taken away at the drop of a hat.**
  * **Do not threaten him with bodily harm.**
  * **Don’t bother asking him how he feels. He will lie and say he is fine.**
  * **If he says he’s good, then he’s in pain.**
  * **He is allergic to morphine.**
  * **Demerol makes him hallucinate. Don’t give it to him.**
  * **Only give him pain killers at night so he can sleep. He’ll prefer it that way.**
  * **If he refuses to sleep, give him something powerful enough to knock him out.**
  * **Only allow the people on the list I screened to see him.**
  * **Tell them nothing.**
  * **Inform him as many times as necessary that the fate of what I left with you is determined by how cooperative he is.**
  * **Be aware that if you cannot keep him in hand and don’t end up giving it to him, he will come after you and kill you.**
  * **And remember that if you mess up, if you tell anyone about this, if anyone finds out. You will die.**




	5. Chapter 5

His sleep that night is restless, filled with never ending tossing and turning, his thoughts clouding his vision in the dark. It’s not easy, to stay in the bed despite the way feeling of weakness, when his entire body is screaming at him to pace around the room until he finds a way out of this mess.  
  
There is, of course, no actual out of any sort with the real issue, it’s only his immediate problems in which his mind is seeking an escape. Jim is dead, he’s not coming back, and out of some malicious desire to further his own pre-death pleasure, he’s set up one final game with which to torture Sebastian before he finally allows his pet to join him in death.  
  
It’s…such a very Jim thing to do, which is all very clear to him now, as he lays alone on his lumpy mattress in the silence of the room.  
  
The instructions his boss had left the man confirmed everything for him, and he can see it now that his mind has cleared, and he can think without being clouded with how he feels. It was like reading a note left with a kennel when someone drops off their dog.  
  
That’s what he is to Jim. What he was. Nothing more than a dog on whom the man liked to perform various experiments. _‘See what makes the pet listen, see how much the pet can take before he snaps. See how fucking much it takes to ruin the pet with an attachment that can’t be… With_ love.’  
  
The echoing reminder makes his stomach clench up, and he rolls over on the bed, curling up into himself as his hand clenches around the pillow. _“No,”_  he growls, thumping his other hand down on the mattress.  _“No! You don’t get to do this to me, Jim!”_  Gasping for air now, he feels as if his lungs aren’t getting enough, and he can’t breathe, but he can still think. It’s not enough to stop him from being able to think, which makes it so much more worse. Instead of blocking out his head, it’s making it louder, more present, harder to ignore.  _“No, Jim, please. Don’t do this to me. Please, don’t.”_  
  
He hears the beeping of the monitors change before he notices that anything is wrong, and even then it takes a few moments to register what’s happening and what it means.  _“No, Jim,”_  is all he can think, over and over, as Jim’s voice chases him through his mind, taunting him endlessly.  
  
 _“Such a boring pet, my dear. Such a failure. I thought for sure that might have held out just a little bit longer. But you didn’t, did you? You failed, and you ruined everything, even with your timing. Couldn’t you have kept your backbone for just a little bit longer? Or are you that little of a man? Are you that much of a mess, that broken, that all you needed were just a few words from me, and you were gone?_  
  
 _“Disgusting. Utterly disgusting. That’s what you are, Moran. You’re nothing more than a failed experiment, a broken toy that has no more use. You’re worthless, Moran, you’re broken and you’re nothing to me. You never could have been, not in your wildest dreams. You were a distraction, something to pass the time, a hamster on a wheel. I knew exactly where you would go, in which direction you’d run, and you did not disappoint. Every action you took was planned out, until you had no free will left. Until you were just the hands on a clock, marching to a beat, mindless and stupid._  
  
 _“Just a stupid, broken pet.”_  
  
It hurts, and he can’t help the scream that falls from his lips now, shrill and powerful, with all the air that was left in his lungs. It’s not a word, just a sound, long and drawn out as the pain of his mind presses further and further down to his body, clenching his chest and making it so he can’t move, frozen and still.  
  
 _“Breathe, Mr Moran,”_  comes a voice, soft and melodious in his ear.  _“It’s all right, all you have to do is breathe. We’ll take care of the rest.”_  
  
 _“No! No, Jim, stop it! Please!”_  he can feel the tears streaming down his cheeks now, but he doesn’t care, they don’t matter. He just wants Jim to stop, to let him die. _“G’way, Jim,”_  is the whimper, falling from his clenched teeth.  _“Jus’ le’ m’ die.”_  
  
“Not going to let you die, Moran,” the voice has changed now, not softened, or altered discernibly, but it sounds more like Jim this time.  _“Why would I let you die?”_  it asks, and he can almost hear the chuckle in the voice. It’s the last thing he hears, before his eyes roll back into his head, and the dark clenches over him.  _“Why, we’ve only just begun.”_

_  
_

**_> <><><_ **

**  
**_“How are you feeling, Sebastian?”_  
  
 _Opening his eyes slowly, Sebastian blinks a few times, trying to adjust to the light. “I-” he hesitates, frowning in the direction of the voice. “I’m…tired.”_  
  
 _“I know you are. It’s all right. You haven’t slept in days. You’ve been too busy standing guard by your window.”_  
  
 _“Have I?” his hand stops midair, on the way up to rub his eyes. “I-” he can’t help but frown again, trying to focus on the man with whom he’s talking. He’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look dangerous. He’s…pleasant to look at, short, dark-haired, with a nice, unassuming face. He looks endlessly familiar, like Sebastian should know everything about him. But he can’t quite place who he is, or who he is to Sebastian. “Sorry,” he mutters, as if on instinct. “Did you want something?”_  
  
 _“No, no, it’s fine. You’re just doing your job. I brought you something.” Now he smiles, it’s small and soft, but it serves to relax him just a bit. The man shifts, gesturing to the table beside him where a tea tray sits. “I brought you tea. Figured we could have a cup together and talk.”_  
  
 _A warning bell somewhere in the back of Sebastian’s mind goes off, but he can’t figure out exactly what it means. It just doesn’t sound right, not like it’s natural, or something the man would normally say. Or maybe it’s that it’s the wrong thing for the man to say, but it sounds nice, so Sebastian nods slowly, letting out a puff of air. “All right. A cup of tea would be- would be nice.”_  
  
 _“Wonderful.” The man’s smile broadens minutely, and he turns, his hands moving towards the things on the tray. His hands move with ease, as if they’ve done it a thousand times and he doesn’t have to think about it anymore to get it right. He doesn’t even ask how Sebastian wants to take it, but when he hands the cup over and Sebastian tries it, it tastes perfect. Just the way he likes it, even if he can’t name what he likes with tea._  
  
 _“Thank you,” he shoots an uncertain smile over the rim, shoulders curling into himself as he drinks it._  
  
 _“Of course,” moving to sit in the chair across from Sebastian’s perch, the man holds the cup to his lips, not drinking it was he watches. His stare is curious, but not particularly intruding. He looks a bit like he’s trying to pretend that he doesn’t want anything, and it’s working. “Are you all right, Sebastian?” he asks, a look of concern shifting to fill his eyes. “Why are you looking at me funny?”_  
  
 _“I-” the back of his throat fills with the thousand of things he’d like to say. ‘I don’t know who you are, I’m looking at you funny because you don’t make sense, I’d like to know you, you’re beautiful, why don’t I know you?’ but all that comes out is, “Just a little out of it, I guess.” Eyes downcast, he stares at his half drunk tea, his mind racing to figure out where he is. There’s something about the man, something telling him to trust him, and something telling him never to let his guard down. He doesn’t know which instinct he should listen to, and it’s making his heart thump loudly in his chest. “Thank you for the tea. I should…get back to my watch.”_  
  
 _“Of course,” the man repeats, lips twisting just a little. “I wouldn’t have interrupted you…but, you’re going to need sleep soon. I can take over for you, even for just a few hours.” Raising a hand to placate Sebastian before he can protest, the man stands, walking over to him. “Just think about it, love. Decide later.” His hand moves up to Sebastian’s face, prompting the lightest of flinches, which makes him click his teeth. Not saying anything further, he smiles reassuringly. “It’s all right. We’re going to be okay, Sebastian. They can’t get to you in here.”_  
  
 _With that, he leans down, pressing a light kiss first to Sebastian’s brow, and then a longer one to his lips. “It’s all right,” he whispers, pulling away now with his hand stroking the side of Sebastian’s head. “S’all right. Sleep now.”_  
  
  
 ** _> <><><_**  
  
  
The dream fades in and out of Sebastian’s vision, distorting the colours at the end, making Jim’s face first seem younger, and then grisled and old.  
  
The beeping takes over after that, pushing the sound of his voice away and replacing it. It’s not a nice change, but it lets him relax further, and a faint smile plays on his lips.  
  
“Jim,” he mumbles, licking the name off his lips, “Y’called m’love.”  
  
 _“Shh,”_  someone whispers in his ear.  _“Don’t try and talk. Go back to sleep.”_  
  
“A’right,” he smiles up at the voice. It sounds nice, it doesn’t want to hurt him, so he listens to it. He drifts off again, quietly and without fight; with another voice just barely murmuring at him that he doesn’t want to go back there.  
  
  
 ** _> <><><_**  
  
  
 _“Do you love me, Sebastian?”_  
  
 _The question startles him, making him blink several times before he can understand it. “Do I- do I love you?”_  
  
 _“Yes,” the man continues gracefully, looking curiously insightful. “Do you love me?”_  
  
 _“I- yes. I love you, Jim. I love you v-very much. You’re…you’re my everything.” He looks down, swallowing hard to force back the lump in his throat from having to say that. It’s true, not a word of it is false, but it’s not an easy thing to admit. “I-” he pauses, licking his lips, “You took me out of an empty life, one where I had nothing, and you gave me a reason to- reason to live. You made it so that I wouldn’t have to keep fighting for- for every breathe in the mornings. I would-” he closes his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose._  
  
 _“I didn’t know where I was before I met you, I didn’t know what I was, or who I wanted to be. And then- and then I met you, and you gave me someone to be. A life to live, a place to stay, an excuse to…to keep on living. Without you I’m…I’m just empty and broken.” He can’t bring himself to look up, fearing that he might flinch at the look on Jim’s face, whatever that look may be. He doesn’t want to be scared, but the words that shake out of his mouth aren’t easy._  
  
 _Opening his mouth again, he tries to continue, but he’s silenced by a hand suddenly on his shoulder and a voice._  
  
 _“Shh, I know, pet, I know what you feel. I just wanted to hear you say it.” Jim’s voice is soothing, like being offered a warm, loving embrace. He feels wrapped in Jim’s arms, just by his voice, even though the hand is pulled away. It’s like being surrounded by a blanket, held in place by soft wool. Jim’s voice is like his rock now, like the only thing holding him in place, holding him up._  
  
 _“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whispers, his lips tickling the edge of Sebastian’s ear. “You’re absolutely mine in every way. I made you, I created you. Does that make me your god? I made you in my image, I molded you in every way, I took something broken and made it beautiful. I made you._  
  
 _“Do you worship me, Sebastian?” he purrs, his nose brushing up against Sebastian’s hair as he breathes in softly. “Do you worship me as your creator, or am I just a man to you? No, no, shh, don’t speak just yet,” he hushes Sebastian as he opens his mouth to speak, moving to cover his mouth with a warm, heavy hand. “Do you love me as you would love a man, or do you love me as your god?_  
  
 _“Hm,” he starts to pull away, the hand falling down first to Sebastian’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his neck in a pseudo-hug. “Are you my most faithful, Sebastian? are you enough of a man to understand how much I am, what I am, and who I am? Do you see me for who I am, or do you just see me as another of my creations? You can speak now, darling. You can speak.”_  
  
 _The first sound Sebastian makes is a gasp, half desperate for air, and half just trying to make his heart work again in his chest. “I- Jim- sir-” he doesn’t know what to call him now, doesn’t know what to say or do, and all on which he can focus is the skin touching his neck, the hot breath in his ear._  
  
 _It’s not sexual, none of it is, but at the same time it’s nothing but their bodies. He doesn’t feel a rising of his body, or a desire to have and be had by Jim, because he already is. Feeling him like this, being embraced, his eyes squeezed shut and terrified, is like being consumed. He feels as if he’s been swallowed whole by Jim. The story of Jonah and the whale flickers through his head, and he feels like Jonah. All of his old Sunday School lessons threaten to rush back at him, and it’s Jim’s voice that’s bringing them out._  
  
 _He’d tried to run — or had he? — from Jim, and Jim had swallowed him up, consumed him alive to keep him from getting away. Was now when he would be released? to live his life no longer running from his master?_  
  
 _“Please,” he can’t help but beg. “Please. Sir. Don-don’t-”_  
  
 _“Don’t what, my darling pet?” Jim hums again, his hand stroking through Sebastian’s hair. “Don’t you want this? Don’t you want to be mine, forever, for all eternity? Don’t you want to live at my side, the side of a god? My precious, favourite pet, that’s what you are. Don’t you want to be that to me? Or would you rather…” he pauses here, his nose pressed to Sebastian’s neck now, inhaling his scent, categorising it, judging him on it. “Would you rather I set you free, to be an ordinary man once more?”_  
  
 _“No, no, please,” Sebastian whimpers, his arms beginning to shake, and he just wants to wrap them around Jim, hold him as well, feel him. But he can’t, he doesn’t know if it’s allowed yet, and if he takes that liberty, Jim might take away his arms, his words. “Let me be yours, J- Sir. I’ve always been you-yours. You made me, S-Sir. I’m nothing withou-without you. Don’t make me g-go. Please, Sir. Don’t- don’t leave me.”_  
  
 _“Shh, pet, shh, it’s all right.” He can feel Jim smile into his skin, the hand growing rougher as he’s petted and soothed. “I accept. I’m your master, remember? Call me that, pet, call me your master. Say it.”_  
  
 _“M-master. Please, master.”_  
  
 _“Please what, my darling? What would you like?” Fingers play with his ear, nails trailing and scraping down the rim. “Just ask, my darling. Ask and you shall receive.” The last word comes out hot, chuckled and rough into him, and he can almost feel it seep into his skin._  
  
 _“Let me- let me t-touch you, M-Master?” the honourific doesn’t feel right on his tongue, but at the same time it does, it feels both horrible and wonderful. It’s like everything he should have said, and everything he’s never intended, all at once. “Can I- can I kiss you, Master? Jus- just this once? I won’t-” his cheeks feel tinged with red, “I won’t ask again.”_  
  
 _“Yes, yes, of course,” Jim croons, trailing his lips along the side of Sebastian’s cheek. “Of course you can kiss me, my pet. C’mere.”_  
  
 _It sounds earnest, but Sebastian is still too afraid to open his eyes, even as he turns his head, tilting his neck at an uncomfortable angle. He doesn’t say anything, lips slightly parted as he breathes out, waiting for a cue, for lips, for the smack, something._  
  
 _It takes a moment, but he feels it, feels breath against his mouth, lips pressing down to the corner of his, brushing over several times as they move. After a moment, they cover his almost entirely, and Jim mumbles something unheard against his mouth before he pulls away, before he takes away the gentle, adoring press of their mouths together._  
  
 _He says something again, louder this time, but still unheard over the fuzz in Sebastian’s ears. He can feel the words against his lips still, but he doesn’t know what they mean, and they don’t seem to matter, not after being kissed by Jim, not after finally getting to feel what it’s like to touch his lips and love him._  
  
 _With anyone else, it would have been nothing, just a chaste kiss, but it’s Jim, Jim’s mouth, Jim’s body, and it’s everything. No one else matters, no one else exists, just Jim and Jim’s lips retracting themselves._  
  
 _He has to restrain himself, keep from chasing after them with a needy whimper, silently begging for more. He stops himself, just barely, and it hurts to not ask for more, but just those kisses have been so much more than he’d ever imagined he might get, and he doesn’t want them taken away from him._  
  
 _Jim says it again, once more, still unheard and invisible sounding as it fades away, and he feels himself falling._


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing he notices when he wakes is the sensation of damp cheeks, his face still wet with tears shed mid-dream. He breathes inwardly, the noise of his mouth harsh even to his own ears, and the air a cold sting as it passes down through his trachea.  
  
Before he makes the conscious decision, he finds himself rising, sitting as far up on the bed as he can. Biting his lip to hold in the cry of pain that tries to escape, he winces. He still groans, low and deep, his hand moving to fly up to his chest and hold himself there. It doesn’t do anything, but he pats the area, looking for some cause for the pain. He doesn’t find it, and abandons his search after a few moments.  
  
It’s only then that he looks around himself again, eyes wide and horrified at his surroundings. After a second, he’s recognised it, not entirely, but enough to understand that he’s not where he should be. He’s not at his flat, not the one he shares with Jim.  
  
His head is buzzing wildly, the noises almost too much for his mind to process, to be able to think beyond one conscious word. “Jim! Jim!” he shouts, his hands moving to tear at the bedsheets, pulling them away from his body. He throws his legs to the floor with an agonised groan, almost falling to the ground if not for catching his hands on the edge of the bed. “God!” he hisses, “Jim! where are you?”  
  
With each exhale he cries anew, begging for an answer to come. Even as he rights himself, bracing himself up as he stands on the floor. The white of the walls looms threateningly around him as he takes a step forward, careful on his legs and wary, unsure because they don’t feel strong enough to hold him up. He tries not to focus on his surroundings, but with every forced thought of ‘no, not there, it’s fine’, he only concentrates on them harder.  
  
Pushing himself through it, one painful step at a time, he makes his way to the door, his hands falling uselessly on the handle. It’s locked from the outside, the knob stuck and refusing to turn no matter how hard he pushes at it, trying desperately to get it to budge. “Hey!” he shouts, pounding on the glass pane with one hand, the other still on the handle to hold him up. “Let me outta here!” it’s useless, and he knows it. It’s also unconscionably idiotic of him, but it’s the only thing he can think to do. Nothing else makes sense, nothing else sounds reasonably to him in this moment, just demands to be set free.  
  
 _‘Don’t make requests until you have leverage.’_ The words echo in his head, making his eyes go wide and terrified, losing focus as they draw him towards them.  
  
 _‘Don’t do stupid things to get yourself noticed until you’re certain you have the upper hand, or a plan for how you’re going to get it.’_  
  
 _It’s...those are the two things Jim always said to him, two things he’d tried to drill even harder inside his head than ever before. They’d been something he’d always known. Instinct, Jim had said once in passing, brushing it off with only a few words. ‘You’ve always had perfect instincts, which got you out of having them trained.’_  
  
 _He’d never said any more of the matter, and Sebastian hadn’t quite had it in him at the time to press. But that was then. That was...years ago, he realises, back when he’d first gotten himself hired by the man._  
  
 _“Whatever you do, don’t get yourself noticed! Do you hear me, Moran? Are you fucking listening to me right now?” He always used to shout the loudest when he was disappointed in Sebastian. Otherwise it would have been easier for him to handle, yelling was second nature to him, he’d been hearing people yell and scream at him for as long as he could remember. But no one had ever yelled at him like that before, yelled at him like they’d actually expected more from him -- hoped for more from him._  
  
 _“I don’t think you are, because I’ve told you this a dozen times, and you keep fucking up on me. You keep almost ruining job after job because you couldn’t fucking keep it in your pants, or you just had to keep waiting for the right moment, and you waited too long and got yourself spotted -- got yourself shot in the fucking shoulder.”_  
  
 _That had been the first time Jim had ever hit him. He’d thrown Sebastian bodily against the wall, screaming in his ear as he cringed, cowering away from the horrific expression of rage written pure across his boss’ face. Sebastian had felt like a small animal being cornered, shoved into a small space where he couldn’t move or get out without hurting himself further, his heart beating unpleasantly fast, blood boiling with a fear that he’d never felt so potently. Jim had wrapped his fingers around his neck and held him in place, slapping him with the other hand until his cheeks were on fire and he was gasping for air._  
  
 _“I’m sorry,” he’d whimpered quietly, sounding desperate once the blows stopped coming for a moment. “I’m sorry,_ please.”  
  
 _Jim had hissed something he couldn’t hear, and moved his grip to Sebastian’s chin, shoving his head back against the wall almost hard enough to give him a concussion, first once, and then bashing him a second time, only a small degree lighter. “Give me one good reason,” he’d growled, his face just inches from Sebastian’s face as the man tried not to cough and choke. “One good reason why I shouldn’t just snap your neck now and be rid of you.”_  
  
 _He hadn’t been able to speak, barely enough space in his throat to breathe, his eyes wild and begging shamelessly for something, anything, some sort of reprieve -- be it release or death._  
  
 _Then, suddenly, Jim had let him go. Dropped his hand from his throat, releasing him from the wall as he stepped back, wiping his palms on the fabric of his trousers. He’d smiled, snake like and more venomous than anything, his eyes roving along Sebastian’s face as his neck oscillated. He’d licked his bottom lip, a movement Sebastian hadn’t been able to help but follow, before he seemed to find the thing for which he was looking, and nod sharply._  
  
 _“You may go,” he’d said simply, turning away to return to his desk as if Sebastian wasn’t there, as if he hadn’t come so close to killing a man in his study._  
  
 _Sebastian had come close to tripping, falling away from the wall as he’d coughed quietly, holding his throat --_  much in the way that he does now, except now he has nowhere to go, instead crumpling into himself on the floor.  
  
Even as a voice shouts in his head -- sounding too much like him to be calming -- he wraps his arms around his knees, pulling them up close to his chest as he lets out a dry, desperate sob. Not a tear falls from his face, though his eyes feel wet and sticky, and he closes them tightly and licks his too dry lips.  
  
His mouth falls open to say something but the only words of which he can think are apologies, to himself, to Jim, to them both, and they make his heart clench up harder, too painful to utter.

_**> <><><** _

He wakes again, in the dark this time, sitting up on a mattress that feels familiar underneath his body. His eyes don’t adjust to the darkness immediately, leaving him unsure of where he is, not able to feel anything from the room around him. It could be a thousand different places that he’s been, a hundred different houses and flats, countries, cities, continents, he could be anywhere in the world, because in this moment it all feels the same.  
  
It’s a head rush, like he’s on some sort of drug trip, to realise that suddenly every mattress on which he’s ever slept feels the same, every room in which he’s consented to spend the night feels like this one, so perfectly balanced inside his head.  
  
Sucking in a startled breath, he pats the mattress beside him, his hand moving to the pillow to feel for something, a head, a foot,  _a person._  
  
There’s nothing there but the edge of the bed, the corner of the mattress, and it makes his hand freeze, confused for a moment before it sinks into his head.  
  
 _‘Jim is...oh.’_  
  
The moment fills him with a clarity that’s startling, and though it tastes bad in his mouth, it makes his head clear, allowing him to breathe easier.  
  
Flopping back down, his head hits the hard pillow, and he stares almost unseeing up at the ceiling above him. His eyes have begun to filter it out, adjust, and he’s starting to see better, but suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore at all. It’s just...a ceiling. Cracked in a few places, whitewashed, old, absolutely nothing special about it.  
  
But it looks just enough like the ceiling at Jim’s old flat, the first one they had when he’d been instructed to move his belongs there, to bring a vague sense of comfort to him. He can’t help but smile faintly at it, his heart calm in his chest for the first time in who knows how long, no longer feeling the fear or concern of earlier.  
  
It’s still not all right, nothing is, but it’s okay enough that he can stop, breathe, not fight so hard for something that isn’t there anymore.  
  
Jim isn’t coming back, and although the thought brings a tear to the corner of his eye, it doesn’t make him throw himself out of the bed towards the door. Instead, he closes his eyes, whimpering quietly in the dark as he hugs his pillow to his chest instead of leaving it under his head, and pretends until he falls asleep again that it’s Jim’s little body he’s holding in his arms once more.


	7. Chapter 7

The doctor comes in the next morning, speaking to him in a hushed tone, saying words he pieces together slowly. He talks for a long while, staring into Sebastian’s eyes with this sense of understanding that sends a shiver down his spine. Every word seems designed to make him think, make him feel and know, grasp what the situation is.  
  
It isn’t until hours must have passed that he realises it isn’t the same doctor as before. This one is older, greyer, more weathered by age and people than any of the other people he’s met in his life. He smiles at Sebastian when he leaves, tells him that this is his last visit, and that he wishes him the very best.  
  
The nurse comes in after, and he asks her who the man was. She smiles at him, but doesn’t seem to hear, or even care whether or not he’s spoken.  
  
Instead she sits on the edge of the bed, places a hand on his shoulder, and kisses the corner of his lips.  
  
Her mouth taste like she’s been out in the sun, a hint of honey just before she pulls away. There’s nothing he can do but stare at her, not frozen in shock or horror, but a silent wondering. He’s never seen her before either, and the fact that she kissed him doesn’t seem to properly compute.  
  
A second, lighter kiss is pressed to the middle of his forehead. It’s soft and feels like more maternal now than anything. Like he’s a small child with a scraped knee, and his mother is comforting him.  
  
She whispers something against his skin before she pulls away, a sad look in her eyes.  _“You’re going to be all right, Sebastian. Things will get better for you. You just have to be patient. You’ll see.”_  
  
 _It’s the same thing she used to tell him when he was a little boy. “It’s all right, my love,” she’d whisper into his ear. “Life will go on and one day…one day you’ll find a way to happiness. Life is beautiful. You’ll see”_  
  
 _He’d stare up at her, face caked with dirt and tears, blood trickling down from whatever wound he had that day, his eyes fixed on hers with a salient determination. No matter how many times she’d say those same words, he’d stop to listen every time, wanting to believe her. “But what if it doesn’t, mum?” he’d sometimes ask. “What if it doesn’t get any better? What if I don’t make it long enough for that?”_  
  
 _“Shh, my little prince,” she’d laugh, a heartbroken sound, stroking his cheeks to rub away the mess. “You’ll make it to the better times because I will always be there watching over you. As long as you carry me in your heart, nothing can break you.”_  
  
 _She’d hug him tight against her chest, pressing his face into her shoulder, making any other words he might try to say come out muffled and obsolete._  
  
 _“My dove,” she’d say into his hair, “I love you. Isn’t that enough to remind you that happiness does exist?”_  
  
When he blinks back the tears, she’s moved to the far end of the room, her hand on the knob and her eyes still on him. “You’re getting out today, Mr Moran,” she smiles, straightening the hem of her scrubs before moving through the door and away. “Isn’t that great?” she calls, the sound tainted by the walls and her retreating footsteps.  
  
  
 _ **> <><><**_  
  
  
How it happens, he’s unsure, but it’s a short while later that a brown paper wrapped package is delivered to his room. The string comes off easily, and inside is a pile of clothing he doesn’t recognise, a note left on top.  
  
His hands shake as he lifts it up.  
  
It doesn’t start the way the others have. There’s no ‘my darling pet’ at the top, and not seeing it digs a hole into his chest that’s just as big and painful as when he has been called that. It feels, for a moment, like his heart’s stopped, and he can’t breathe past his clogging throat.  
  
 _“Sebastian,_  
  
 _Dear me, if you were any other man, I would suggest that you must hate me by now. Indeed, you have every right, every cause, and I — nor anyone else — would not hold it against you if you did. But you’re still here, still reading my words, and if I’m right, there is still a tear or two in your eyes as you do._  
  
 _At best, you’re a sentimental fool, for which I blame only myself. But now is not the time to discuss all the ways in which I have wronged you._  
  
 _If I were a fair man, I would have arranged for the flat to be sold by now, found you another, and had only the things that never belonged to me transferred there._  
  
 _Don’t fret. I haven’t. Not because I wish for you to wallow in the miserable wreckage into which you have turned yourself, but because I’m tired. I am no longer your boss, I have no true authority over you, and I certainly can no longer be held truly accountable for what you do from this point forward._  
  
 _I stay with you now in a way that could be considered extremely cruel. With every word that I write, I am fully aware that I run the risk of breaking you in a way that I never intended._  
  
 _You are not a broken man, Sebastian. You never have been. You have not been ruined, you have not been destroyed by me._  
  
 _If you wish to ever recover from this, you need to accept something._  
  
 _I do not deserve your love._  
  
 _I did not fix you, no matter what you believe. I only gave you the illusion of brokenness, I manipulated you until you believed yourself incomplete, and I continued to do so until your entire life was molded around me in every way._  
  
 _You are not broken, you have never been fixed by any man, and the only thing holding you back from this point forward is you._  
  
 _If I could take back everything I had ever done to you, I would not. I do not regret the man I made you believe that you were, nor do I intend to simply abandon him, even though I now only exist in the past._  
  
 _You are…something precious. There is something about you that is so incredibly rare that when I first learnt of you, I knew immediately that I had to have you. Meeting you in person only served to confirm that to me._  
  
 _Men like you don’t truly exist out of the imagination of men like me. Or, at least, they shouldn’t._  
  
 _So perfectly pliable, ready to be given just a few words to alter the mind. In a month, you were completely and entirely mine._  
  
 _One day you will regret all of this._  
  
 _I promise you, my dear, one day you will truly begin to understand, and you’ll leave me in the past where I belong as you move forward in your life._  
  
 _Don’t prove me wrong._  
  
 _James Moriarty”_  
  
  
 ** _> <><><_**  
  
  
He dresses in a daze, hardly noticing what he’s putting on his body, only thankful to be rid of the unpleasantness of the scratchy hospital gown. Jim’s words echo in his head on a loop, his voice crisp and clear, as if he’s speaking directly into Sebastian’s mind, and it leaves him feeling cold and violated.  
  
It’s his first instinct to shout, to pound his fist against the wall and blame himself, say that it’s his fault that Jim died not believing himself deserving of love.  
  
But those words weren’t the only thing that penetrated his mind, they’re not even the most important ones. Jim’s words…the idea — the implication — that he wasn’t just a toy to the man, but an experiment, a pleasant way to pass the time while creeping his way into someone’s head is astounding. It makes him feel as if he should be running, hiding from the possibility of being so thoroughly tainted by someone.  
  
It doesn’t feel real, none of it does, and not in the way of shock or disbelief. In the way that none of this feels real. Even as he stands in the middle of his room, a few inches from the foot of the bed, his gown strewn across it, a useless monitor beeping mindlessly in the corner, it feels like nothing more than an elaborate dream.  
  
He feels as if he’s fallen so deep inside of his head that he can’t tell the difference between what’s happened and what’s just a story being written in his mind, and it leaves him numb. Sensations don’t seem to register properly along his skin, thoughts bouncing like toys on a rug; reality coming to a slow, unnoticed stop to make way for silence.  
  
It isn’t that he’s under any misapprehensions about his former employer, at least not that he’s willing to admit to himself. He does not believe that Jim has ever been a better man than he’s seen, not since he first truly started to learn what his job entailed. From the beginning of his third month working for the man, it had been made startlingly clear that Jim was not, or would ever be anything resembling a good or decent man.  
  
Men like Jim didn’t come in good, only bad and infinitely worse. Being considered a good person would have been a horrendous insult to him, and Sebastian would like to believe himself long past the point where he might make the mistake of believing something so false about him.  
  
He’s seen Jim keep men alive while stripping the flesh from their bones, one slice at a time, hacking away at the muscle, and finally ripping out non-vital organs with his bare hands, choking and gagging them by forcing them back into their bodies by way of their throats. Jim has even had his longer games, where he’d play with a specific person or group of people for days, weeks, even months. Slow building, burning psychological games where he’d utterly terrorise them to the point of complete loss of any semblance of sanity. Leaving them then, empty shells of the men they were before, to then be set on fire to hack away at that last shred of interest their bodies still carried.  
  
To say that Jim was in any way at his core a nice man would be like saying that you could feed all the hungry of the world with a can of soup and a blanket.  
  
  
 _ **> <><><**_  
  
  
It’s in the familiar daze that Sebastian is led out from his room out to the car parked in front of the hospital. He hardly registers being ushered into it, only aware enough to bid the nurse goodbye before she shuts the door for him. It isn’t until the car has been out of the car park for at least a quarter of an hour before he realises that there’s a small cardboard box nestled on his lap.  
  
It’s unaddressed, and looks like it’s been jostled for quite some time, given no real care as it was moved from place to place, and that serves enough to help him fish his way out of the drowning sensation of his head.  
  
It’s just another delivery from Jim, and that alone is enough to inspire feelings of hatred for whatever the contents must be.  
  
The feeling fades from his fingers as he plays with the edges, contemplating for the first time in a while whether or not he wants to open it now, or put it off for later. His stomach is roiling in an especially unpleasant manner, and it brings the reminder that he can’t actually remember the last time he was coherent enough to choke down something properly solid.  
  
Without knowing it, his fingers work mindlessly in opening the box, tearing away the tape and then pulling open the flaps so he can stare inside.  
  
It’s a pair of gloves.  
  
There’s no note this time, only the gloves falling out as he tips it over into his lap, feeling his stomach drop and protest further. His throat is numb and swallowing the lump seems impossible, only noticeable enough to hinder his breathing.  
  
He rasps, touching the tip of one of the fingers, flinching at the feel of it.  
  
They slide perfectly around his hands, as if they were stitched together while wrapped around his fingers; a comfortable, warm, perfect fit. They’re a better pair than any he’s had before, and it threatens to choke him, knowing exactly who bought them and why.  
  
His old pair have been as good as dead for months, and he hasn’t had the time to replace them.  
  
 _He hadn’t thought Jim had noticed._  
  
But he clearly had, and whether or not he’d purchased them before or after he’d begun to make plans for his death, Sebastian doesn’t know.  
  
They’re a comfort to him now, as he lifts a hand to his cheek, pressing his skin against the soft, exquisite leather. He can almost imagine that it’s someone else’s hand touching him now, that it’s Jim caressing his cheek, and he closes his eyes to this, letting it carry him until the car rolls to a stop outside of his flat.  
  
  
 ** _> <><><_**  
  
  
It’s dark when he comes to find himself sitting on the balcony, legs folded underneath his body, one of the gloves still covering his hand. The other is sitting on his knee, and he blinks at it.  
  
Something about the night it is brings him this feeling he can’t quite quantify, leaving him uncertain and unconcerned. He lights a cigarette, carefully bringing it to his lips to take a long drag of the Dunhill, a brand he hasn’t had in longer than he can remember.  
  
The heady smoke fills his lungs, not potent enough to make him choke and cough, but enough to seem to coat them in a layer of drunken haze. It both clears and knocks away whatever clarity of his breathing, of his mind, and brings a gentle smile to his lips.  
  
With another drag, he rests his forehead against the metal of the railing, his eyes shut ever so lightly, letting not just the nicotine work its way through him, but the pure honesty of the smoke. It’s a horrible thing, he knows, but smoking has always brought him peace, something he’s only ever thought he could find in one person.  
  
It’s a bit like Jim, the cigarette. Expensive, a slow burning death, and an exquisite feeling of being slowly consumed from the inside out.  
  
He can’t help but smile again as he breathes in the the smoke again and again, embracing the feeling of the dream. The fully, shaky feeling of being eaten by an idea. An idea that screams that nothing is real, nothing is certain, and nothing that’s happened could ever happen again.  
  
It’s because in these moments, in these feelings, he’s taken and brought to the shuddery point of aching headlessness. None of this feels real, from Jim being a part of his life, to Jim leaving him in any way. It could be that Jim was nothing more than this unsteady illusion, when he slept one night, a perfect man created for nothing. No love, no hatred, no purpose but to exist.  
  
He loves Jim, now more than ever before, as the chilling cold of the air brushes through his hair, the cigarette burning low against his fingertips, and the faulty indulgence of the pretense that it actually matters anymore.  
  
That night when he sleeps, wrapped once again around the pillow bearing Jim’s fading scent, he promises himself to find a way.  
  
  
 _ **> <><><**_  
  
  
 _“There was a day when I used to believe that if you just tried long enough, fought hard enough, and never let anything break you, that you might find a way to properly exist. I used to think, you see, that I wasn’t real. I didn’t believe myself to be a proper, living, breathing human being. I didn’t see myself as a man. I was not real, I only existed in someone’s dreams.” A soft, idle smile plays across his lips, a fond remembrance of a time long past._  
  
 _A gentle wind blows from the side, bringing a few stray leaves towards them, one threatening to fly against his face. He catches it without a thought, rubbing his thumb across the stem, careful not to break it. “I used to hope,” he continues, his voice steady and quiet, a hint of something undetermined in the tone. “That one day I could break away from that. Fight viciously enough that instead of being forced down, pushed into some forgotten gutter, that I could instead learn how to be human._  
  
 _“But it wasn’t just that I believed myself to be a figment of the imagination…it was that I saw myself instead as an idea. I wasn’t real because I was just this paradoxical, jumbled combination of a million different thoughts that hardly made sense as individuals, let alone on the whole. So how could I be real if I did not make sense?” The leaf threatens to float away from the tips of his fingers and he frowns, distracted as he crushes it in the palm of his hand, the crunch sounding loud and clear in the silence between his words._  
  
 _“And I wondered, I really did, how I could continue to not exist ever while questioning the fact of my life. Was I real because I breathed? Had blood running through my veins, a beating heart, and a mind that could create on its own?” There’s a pregnant pause, as if he’s chewing over his next words, and when they do come out, they’re breathed like he’s bringing life to something delicate._  
  
 _“‘Je pense donc je suis.’ I think, therefore I am. René Descartes.”_  
  
 _Smiling, James glances down at his hand, at the destroyed remains of the leaf and huffs out a laugh, dumping the contents beside him unto the grass. “Is that the catch-22?” He seems to be asking himself this, instead of anything else, or perhaps something he sees in the wind that might bring him an answer to an age old question. “I exist enough to question my own existence…and that makes me real._  
  
 _“I breathe and I listen to my braying heart, waiting for the day when not a sound greets my ears, but instead the mechanical ticking of a clock as it strikes the hour.”_  
  
 _The words scratch across his throat, filling them with the strength of some emotion, too powerful to put to greater words than this. He swallows, his eyes still fixed on the lines of his hand, at the way his fingers bend and the bones shift._  
  
 _“But does that mean that I will live forever? Will I forever exist in the minds and bodies of everyone I have touched? of all the imaginations into which I’ve reached out my little hands, and dropped fear and heartache?”_  
  
 _With another pause, he tastes the words, like he’s both proud and disappointed in himself for this possibility. But there seems to be something else on his mind, something much deeper than his words struggle to imply._  
  
 _“Will I always exist, from this day or the one before it, as a story that is sometimes told at some cold hour, as the sun begins to set on the horizon?” Here, he turns, flopping back onto the grass to stare without judgement or suspicion, just a near silent watch before his next words. “If I am just an idea, Sebastian…does that mean I will never truly die?”_  
  
 _“That’s not why I believed myself to be one,” he continues, having not actually waited for a response, the words near tripping in his haste to finish before an unwanted one might come. “Despite what you might think.”_  
  
 _He’s about to say something more, and his words aren’t cut off, but the sound in some way fades out, leaving first just the fuzzy picture of Jim’s body strewn comfortably across the patch of grass. After a moment, even that fades out, until all that’s left is the blackened edges of a dream as it’s forgotten._  
  
Sebastian doesn’t begin to wake up, and he doesn’t lose his ability to comprehend what’s around him, but it’s replaced by the solitary knowledge that his existence is falling, and that all that’s left inside his head is a dream.  
  
Embracing it, he curls up into himself, closing his eyes to bring back the image in his memory of Jim holding the leaf. It’s onto that where he leaves his focus, breathing in and out with a determination as he reminds himself that he’s breathing, and living, existing, and thinking because Jim can’t anymore. That’s all that matters now, that he’s here in this place, in Jim’s stead, to exist for him, to carry his memory so he doesn’t fade into something just dead and forgotten.


	8. Chapter 8

“There’s a certain insanity...in stumbling through your life looking unbroken. When you cross a pavement, and the only thing keeping you together, keeping you from falling apart, is the soul-heavy need to be unseen. Not wanting anyone to notice you can be the strongest motivator to stay tough, at least long enough to get out of sight, so no one has to see as you crack at the seams. And...” he trails off, looking down at the palms of his hands in reflection.

“It’s a powerful thing, that instinctive fear of someone finding out how weak you really are.” A tired smile rises to his lips, and he swallows. The sound of his heart beating steadily in his chest comforts him, reminding him that he’s alive and alone. The sounds of him are the only noises save the wind in the trees and a few birds.

“It’s also an extraordinary one,” his voice takes on a funny lilt, a mock interest, as if he’s performing for someone, and wants to get the words just right. “To walk into a coffee shop and order someone else’s favourite latte, to stare at the girl across the counter and have her smile at you. She doesn’t know that you’re broken, that you’re bleeding, that the only thing keeping you from curling up into a corner to wait for your death is letters from a dead man. And there’s just...” his voice cracks, anger and pain filling as a teardrop falls from his face into his hand.

“There’s something about it, about the way your stomach clenches up and you can’t fucking breathe when she calls out his name, and you turn your head, heart dropping so far, only to see that it’s not him.” He swallows again, pushing it away, bracing himself. “It’s just another customer, the man who’d been standing ahead of you in line.”

He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut so he can focus on the memory. The man’s face. It’s so clear, every feature so apparent and so wrong. The man smiles, lips moving to say something, a laugh spilling from his mouth. 

“She doesn’t see the terror in your eyes.” Voice growing louder, his hand forms a fist, clenching the drop so it disappears into his skin. “She can’t fucking see how she’s just changed your life, fucking broke you further. Because his name. That goddamned name!”

The last word comes out forced, and he almost chokes on it, deflating now. His anger isn’t so much as gone as it’s dissolving into the normalcy of what he feels. There’s nothing special about it, it’s the same pain as it was yesterday, the same horrific feeling of something being stolen from him. Something precious and so very much not his.

“Even then,” he whispers, licking his lips. “Even before...it was enough to get your heart racing, forehead sweating, the wheels in your mind turning faster than ever that the prospect of being near him, just for a few seconds.”

It’s there again, the feeling of excitement, the rush of endorphins, the chemicals in his brain lying, telling him that everything is okay again. That he’s back. Everything’s good.

“But now?” he asks himself.

“Now that makes you sick. You want to throw up, choke on your own vomit, lie in a puddle of your own excrement. Something, anything to get the scent of him from clogging your nose.”

He breathes in harshly, nostrils flaring. “Because hearing his name... Hearing his name makes it all come rushing back. You can almost feel him in your arms, feel the beat of his heart pressed against your own chest, smell his hair, press your lips against his skin. Or just have him touch yours.”

The phantom sensation makes him shudder, hands shaking, eyes alight on his forearm. Almost as if staring at his skin will bring Jim’s hands into his. He turns over his hand, palm up, staring at his wrist, the only place he can remember that Jim would ever regularly touch. Test his pulse. Stick needles in his veins. Run his thumb along the curve as he walked past.

“It’s not. It’s just...just a ghost. Just a sickness now, a tumor, and it won’t go away.” He clenches his hand back together in a fist, until his knuckles begin to turn white, and his arm won’t stop shaking. 

“It’s not even something that comes and goes. There aren’t some days where you can hear it and not feel that way.”

He pauses, not a sound, seeming to hold his breath for a minute. When he speaks again, it’s in a tone of anguish, a broken, shattered sound. “Sometimes it’s deadened, yeah. Sometimes it’s like...feeling as if you’re jumping off a bridge, with nothing but rushing water and sharp rocks thirty meters below you.”

When he shuts his eyes, he can see it. Almost hear the sound of the water, just as if he’s standing by the rail. The water almost fills his nose, bringing an ice cold shiver to his spine. It would be so easy to go over, to jump, and let his mind consume him.

He opens his eyes.

“And then sometimes it’s just someone tying you down so they can slowly dig the heart out of your chest.”

Jim had done that once with someone. He hadn’t noticed Sebastian watching, or had pretended not to, when he’d crawled atop a man -- Jenkins was his name -- almost humping his body as he carved through the flesh to get to his heart.

The memory makes him ache, equally bringing a laugh to his lips. It’s a deadened sound, like an echo in a water filled cavern.

“Hell, sometimes you might be so far into your own fucking head that you can’t properly feel it. Your head lolls to the side and you stare, knowing you’re missing something, supposed to be feeling something, but it’s just not there. It’s just...too fake, too big, too imaginary. It’s not real to you and all you can feel is the absence of any real feeling.”

At first it had seemed like a one-off, when it had happened. Like a waking dream, making him dash away to empty out what little he had in his stomach when he’d woken from it. But then it happened again, steadily becoming more and more regular, until almost every morning he woke like that.

“But...but it’s always there. And jesus fuck. Even on good days, even on the best fucking days you’ve had since it happened...”

He pauses, breathing steadily, the sound almost like a whistle as it passes over his lips.

“It’s that name,” he whispers. “That ordinary, beautiful name that strikes fear into your heart. How could a man with a name like that die? It’s...”

He has to swallow.

“She smiles at you and you force one back, isn’t even that hard to look convincing, and suddenly she’s beaming at you.”

Her smile had been disgusting, making his stomach seem to curdle. The idea that anyone could get to be that happy, feel that much joy. That anyone could still be able to breath, not having to live with the feeling of emptiness that comes hand in hand with losing the only person that ever made life worth living.

“You order that latte,” he says, words filling with more feeling, forceful reminders of something. To himself, to any that might be listening. A prayer, almost, to Jim, wherever he might be. “Even though you fucking hate lattes, but come on, it was his favourite, his favourite shop, his favourite latte, his favourite everything; and it’s not like you’re taking his place. You’re really not. There’s nothing of him in you, nothing but what he put in you when he cut you open, burying bits of himself in the cavities of your chest...”

A desperate laugh escapes from his lips.

“God...he just.” He wants to sob, pound his fists into the ground, throw a tantrum. There would be no one to see, no one to stop him. No one to interfere, call him a child, demand that he act his age. Demand that he get over himself. “The letters.”

Every single one like condemnation. His damnation.

Constant reminders of his downfall, his failure, the only one that ever mattered. The first time he made a mistake, a proper one, and in it he lost everything.

“Did he...did he think it would help? think it would fix me somehow?”

It passes through his mind that maybe that’s just it. Maybe Jim knew, knew that it was Sebastian’s fault, blamed him for all of it. In that...and in that, he wanted his revenge. What better way to punish someone than to take the very mistake that will haunt them beyond their dying breath, and use it on them in a seemingly never ending stream.

“And who knows! Maybe it’s all just a game. Maybe he’s still alive, sitting behind a camera somewhere watching me suffer and expire in his name.”

He’s shifted perspectives without even meaning. It’s becoming more about him with every word, ones set to be like pleading in the dark. But instead of helping him, instead of making it easier to breathe, all they do is cut deeper and deeper into what little seems to remain of his tattered soul.

“‘The Suicide Game.’”

He smiles. It’s a good name.

“Nice enough name as any for it.”

Lips curling, he pauses, picking up in a whispered, hollow voice. “Would it be better that way?” he asks himself.

“Easier?”

Maybe it would.

“To know that he’s...that he’s not dead, just playing a game.”

Moriarty and his games. An almost infamous thing. Everyone who knew the name Moriarty seemed to know about his games, about his unquenchable thirst to experiment, to test, to play until his little subjects were nothing but twitching corpses on a floor covered in drying blood.

“But he-”

Adam’s apple bobbing, he swallows.

“He’s dead. No use in-”

His teeth grind together, fists clenching at his sides, struggling to find words that sound like they fit. The wrong ones will hurt too much, make it worse.

Or make it better.

But they feel like they might make it worse. Like he has the small chance of fixing things if he can just find the right words. The right combination. The right sequence of numbers that will make it all better.

He laughs, hysterical, screeching.

“Help me, I’ve gone fucking insane.”

Fingers twitching, he stands up, pressing forward until his entire weight is supported by the rail.

“Is that what people call it when you can feel your mind collapsing into itself?”.

It sounds right. Sounds like what people say, though he knows there are far more technical terms for it. Every little thing had a name, a way to describe it, prescribe for it. Give you pills to make it better, make all the pain go away.

Insane is just a blanket term.

Insane is how people see it.

The Doctors see it that way, too. But they don’t call it that. They pile on Latin until you can’t see straight, can’t understand what they’re saying, and then they sedate you when you lose it in front of them.

That’s what insane is.

“When you catch yourself talking to yourself in a darkened room, to a mirror you can’t see?”

It always seems to be a dark room, now. Every time he stops, doesn’t try to speak, doesn’t try to pretend that he’s not alone, and he’s back in the room. It’s real, a concrete, actual room that he’s seen once or twice. Why it’s what’s taken over his mind, he doesn’t know. But the room is the one thing of Moriarty that scared him the most.

That every time he closes his eyes, he’s outside the room...it’s utterly terrifying.

“Are those your eyes in the dark, you have to ask yourself.”

They are. They always are. Your own eyes, but that’s the thing. They’re not just yours. There are too many of them to just belong to you. There has to be someone else in there with you. Someone watching you, someone waiting for you.

Waiting for what?

“It’s...even in the moments where it begins to feel better, feel like maybe they’re right, it’ll be not quite as bad soon. Just let it...let it rest, wait a bit, don’t do anything rash because everything fades.”

Those are the good moments. The good days. When everything starts to make sense. When it actually feels like there’s a life beyond this, a life where his every moment isn’t dominated by the sheer power of his loss. Where every gulp of air, every atom of his body, ever molecule and cell, where it all no longer belongs to someone else. A world where he’s no longer a slave.

“Isn’t that what everyone says about grief?”

He never felt like that before. Like a slave. He never felt like he was imprisoned, or being held back by some unseen force. But Jim was there in the flesh, so it wouldn’t have been unseen. But it never felt like Jim was wrapping him in chains, waiting to burn him alive once he served his use.

It’s what if feels like now. Like Jim’s standing just out of sight, beyond a corner, behind a statue or an archway, waiting for the right moment to strike. Dig out Sebastian’s heart, make a meal of the meat off his bones.

“Accept it, and after a while...it’ll start to fade just a bit. Until one day you wake up and you can’t remember how it felt to be grieving?”

His breathing quickens, his hands clenching at the metal underneath his hands, gripping it so hard that it’s at risk for becoming bent out of shape.

“No, it’s-” he swallows, snorting air in through his nose.

“Fuck. I... It’s waking up in the middle of the night with your arms empty, your bed cold, and rushing to the bathroom so you can throw up for an hour. Empty everything that was ever in your stomach into the pot. Wipe your sick off the floor, off your face, and stare into that godforsaken mirror at the reflection of a man that was...”

His stomach feels hollowed out and empty, like someone has carved him from the inside out, leaving him as nothing more than a shell.

“...that was never enough for anything.”

Closing his eyes again, he smiles, lifting his head to stare through his eyelids at the sky. “S’why life went the way it did. He’s...” he coughs, pulling away from the rail to wrap his arms around his upper body, stumbling away.

_‘He’s utter insanity. How anyone could ever think... How I could ever think that I could get him let alone find a way to keep him?’_  
  
  
 **> <><><**  
  
  
“Sir? Are you all right, sir?”

It’s the voice of an angel. It must be. Soft and angelic sounding, like a song played masterfully on a gold harp.

He turns to look at her, and all it does is confirm what she is. Hair long and flowing, shining gold, face soft and cultured, like it’s been carved from stone and had life breathed into it. A smile like she’s fallen from heaven, landed in a soft patch of grass, and gotten up to brush herself off and be on her way.

“Sir?” she repeats patiently.

He must be a real sight to her. Hair unwashed, face tracked with dirt, clothes unchanged for countless days. Grime under his fingernails and around his eyes.

But she smiles at him, and it looks like she hasn’t even noticed. Or cared.

“Yeah?” he asks, trying not to look at her, at the way his heart pangs when he stares. He brushes it away from one blink of his eyes to the next, and she reaches out to and for him. “Sorry...I just-” he doesn’t have words. He doesn’t know why he’s here, or how he came. He’s unsure who she is, beyond being sent from some higher, more sadistic power, or what she wants from him.

“Oh, no, it’s perfectly all right, sir. I was just wondering if you’d like to get out of the cold and have a cup of tea with me?”

She must think him a drifter. Some vagrant without two pounds to his name, starving to death in the impending winter.

It wouldn’t be all that far off from the truth.

He has money, plenty of it, but it’s all Jim’s, written away in his name, and he can’t bear to bring himself to touch even the tiniest bit of it. Without paychecks coming in, his own funds are beginning to draw short.

Not that he’d be spending money even if he had it. It’s that he forgets. Like how Jim used to forget, in a way.

Forgets to eat, forgets to bathe, forgets to stop to change his clothes.

Except worse, because Jim never looked the tiniest hair out of place. He was perfect in every way on every day.

“I, uh,” he hesitates, frowning down at his hands.

“Come on,” she smiles again, “it’ll be fun. I know a great place just around the corner.”

Why he follows, he’s later unsure, but he finds himself now, falling in step at her side as she floats along the pavement. Neither of them speak, her, seeming content to just listen to the sounds of the wind in the trees, and the occasional bird as it sings out; and him, more afraid than anything, afraid of what words might stumble across his lips if he forces it.

Before he knows it, they’re inside, someplace warm, the smell of spices in the air, a comforting atmosphere that sings of coming home, out from the cold.

They sit, and don’t even have to order, not that he’d remember, anyway, what with the way his gaze fixed on a man walking past the window, wearing a suit exactly like one of Jim’s favourite, only tearing himself away when the mugs are placed down on their table. He glances up at her, a wariness in his eyes, a thousand questions on his lips. “Who’re you, then?” is the only one that makes it out, falling more flat than coming across as demanding. Now that he’s warm, with something in his hands to keep him distracted, and the aching reminder of Jim fresh in his memory, she doesn’t seem quite so heavenly.

“Angelica,” she smiles again -- not that she’d ever actually stopped -- and extends a hand. He looks down at it, at the slenderness of her wrist, the way she seems so fragile and breakable, skin a creamy white, and then he takes it. 

Shaking it softly, so as not to crush her fingers in his grip, he murmurs an, “enchanted to meet you.” Simple, generic, and enough to generally come across as more polite than necessary for any social situation.

Not that social situations are his forte. But being dragged out by the end of a tie more than once to participate in some function or another with Jim left him exceedingly well trained.

He releases her hand after just a few seconds, hand moving back to cup at his drink. “‘Ah’m,” he almost says _‘Sebastian,’_  or  _‘’Bastian,’_ some name that he knows will hurt to hear from lips as soft as hers, a voice like the one she has, but he stops himself. “Brandon,” is the one with which he settles after a long second’s pause.

They talk for what must be hours, until the haziness creeps back around the edges of his brain, and he feels like she’s crept her way to some window that gives way to his soul. She’s an art history major, a minor in maths, studying at some University that she doesn’t name, and he happened to catch her eye while she was walking home to an empty flat. Called out to him because she was lonely, and thought she’d do something nice, reach out to someone for a change.

It’s a story like the ones you hear about on occasion, about people you don’t think really exist. What kind of person would prefer the company of a stranger, a seemingly homeless person, to calling up a friend to meet them instead?

But she settles that, saying that she’s meeting up with a group from one of her classes, after dinner. They’re going down to a club and  _“would you like to come with?”_

He doesn’t. Not really. Clubs mean loud noises, too many people, too much happening, difficulty focusing, staying on your guard. Clubs mean danger. Clubs mean getting smashed out of your mind and shagging someone blind against a wall, who you’ll forget the next morning. Clubs mean stupid mistakes that aren’t meant to be repeated.

But Angelica is the first person outside of the hospital, outside of Scotland Yard, that he’s seen in... Well, since, Jim died. Since his flight home, the drive back from the aeroport, where his mind had been thrumming with the rumours of deaths in the city.

Which is probably why, when he opens his mouth to say no, to shake his head, he finds himself offering a small smile to match hers, and saying  _“yeah, sure, that sounds like...like it might be fun.”_

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any clothes for it. All he has is suits, sweatpants, some cargo shirts, and far too many button downs. A compromise Jim had made one day when in a reasonably good mood had been to say that he wasn’t allowed to wear t-shirts, except for the white ones underneath things, but he only had to wear ties on specific occasions, and he could wear cargoes twice a week.

Not club material, not last time he checked. But she smiles, that horrible, saint-like smile, and says it’s all right. That she still has some of her ex’s clothes buried in the back of her closet, and he was about the same size. Should fit him up nicely.

Which is how they end up back at her flat, hair wet from a scrub down in her shower, shirtless with her smiling up at him from the bed. It makes him uncomfortable and he doesn’t know what to say, so he brushes her off, shoving his body into clothes that are just a bit too small for him. He’s more muscled than the ex would have been, even counting weeks of being idle, which makes the fabric cling to his skin in a way he’s not sure he likes.

But she pronounces him as  _‘hot’_  and he takes her word for it, shrugging at the mirror, not wanting to look into his own eyes. She presses him into a chair, makes him stare at her as she paints his eyes with black coal. Make them _‘pop’,_ as she says, and it changes his face dramatically. She paints his lips with a deep rouge, until the only thing he recognises about his face is the scar above his eye.

He doesn’t say it, but he looks like a cheap whore. One a person could buy in a back alley somewhere, carrying a thousand different diseases.

It makes his stomach twist up, but he likes it, likes the sudden feeling of being able to pretend. Giving himself a new story to fit with the fake name.  
  
  
 _ **> <><><**_  
  
  
Only a matter of minutes seem to pass before they’re at the club, standing outside next to the long line of scantily clad birds with the occasional addition of an obvious tool or two. He recognises the bouncer by the door before they approach, and his heart drops to his stomach. Bloke used to do freelance on occasion for them, a couple of years back. His name evades Sebastian like a cloud, and for a moment, as they walk through the doorway, he thinks the man’s recognised him, too.

For the next few minutes, he ignores everything else around him, ears entirely in tune to hear the shout of his name he’s expecting.

It doesn’t come.

Then it hits him. The wave of sound, of flashing lights, of music and people shouting in his ears, each trying to outdo the other. The room smells of sweat, perfume, cheap cologne, and alcohol. Enough to dig its way into your nose and make you feel like you’re about to sneeze.

He feels lost, in over his head, every combination of sound and screaming getting to him until he can’t breathe, can’t focus. _‘Is this what it feels like to be Jim?’_ he wonders idly, the only coherent thought passing through his head.

It’s too loud, too many jostling bodies, and he feels lost in the crowd, consumed by it. It’s like this swelling around him, like someone’s wrapped a thin cloth around his face, his eyes and his nose, spinning him around and around in circles until he’s too dizzy to stand upright. He sucks in a breathe, harsh, heady, taking in the putrid air. It tastes like everything about sex with the good parts extracted. Slimy, wet, too hard, too hurried, a dirty mess.

It smells like an ocean closing around his body, eating him whole, only to digest him slowly in the dark.

A hand closes around his wrist, tugging him blindly in a random direction. Towards the bar.

“Come on!” the voice shouts in his ear, giggly, young, full of life and energy.

Shot after shot is pressed into his hands, and he mindlessly tosses them back, drinking until his vision blurs at the edges, shaking around him, and the lights and sounds dim enough that it starts to seem like it might not be so bad.

But she’s in his lap, the girl, Angelica, whispering in his ear that he looks sexy all cleaned up. His hands are at her waist, more to keep her from falling on her arse than anything, and her mouth is wet, disgusting. He wants to push her away, but he can’t bring himself to do that.

“I don’t-” he stutters, “I’m sorry but I-”

She rests her head along his neck, tongue darting out to taste the sweat on his skin. Words are pressed into his skin, scrambling around in his brain, and before he knows it, his lips have started again, and he’s talking without reserve.

“I don’t know what happened. One day he was- and then the next he wasn’t. Came home to an empty flat. Papers were the one that told the story. There was a note! Of course there was a note and I just-” he swallows, one of his hands moving from her waist, to the shot glass on the bar. He stares at it, like it might hold all the answers. She shifts in his lap, fingers digging into his skin.

“I didn’t know what to do. What are you even supposed to- and I- I lost it. He was gone and I didn’t know how to- how to breathe but then- I just.”

The way she nods makes it sound like she understands, like he’s making sense, so he blunders forward.

“It’s like he’s haunting me, everywhere I go, he’s following me. But he’s not. I think he’s there, and then he’s not. When I close my eyes, it feels like he’s holding me, but he’s not and I want him to be. But I don’t. Yanno?”

He doesn’t know, doesn’t know what he’s saying, why he’s talking about it to someone else for the first time that he can remember. To a girl he’s just met, whose face has already begun to blur with a thousand others in his memory, and she’s still here. Still listening, still clinging to him.

“Dunno why he left, why he did that, when I could ‘ave helped him. Could ‘ave fixed him. I would ‘ave tried, at least. Would ‘ave damn well done my best to fix it. Make things better. I just wish- I wish he would ‘ave let me.”

If he’d had the chance, he would have done absolutely everything in his power to fix whatever it was that was broken enough inside Jim to make him do that. _‘It’s why he left, innit?’_ his addled mind supplies.  _‘He killed himself because he was running, because he wanted out. S’what they always say. Suicide’s the answer when people don’t know where to go.’_

“But he didn’t!” He chokes, forcing back his neck, Adam’s apple bobbing as the liquid burns its way down his throat. He coughs harshly, “and now I’m just...here.”

“Something wrong with here?” she whispers into his neck, pulling away and shifting off his lap, but not releasing him from the embrace. If anything, she hugs him tighter, keeping his body close to hers in some facsimile of comfort.

“I...”

“No, sorry,” she laughs, soft and sweet, regret in her tone. “That wasn’t very sensitive of me. C’mon,” she pulls away, signaling the man behind the bar for another round of shots. “A few more, and then I’ve got something for you.”

In the haze, he closes his eyes, tossing the next shot back without hesitation. He shakes off the sharpness of it going down, opening his eyes to stare at her blurry figure.

She’s so pretty right here. With her eyes smudged just barely by her makeup, hair mussed, but still angelic looking. More so than before, if that’s at all possible. She looks less like she’s landed to do works sent by a more heavenly host, and more like she’s been left out by them in the cold.

But she still smiles, quiet, beautiful, and far more loving than he’s ever deserved from anyone.

Two or three tosses more, and she’s leading him away again, her pulse beating against his fingers, somehow deafening the roar of the music around them. They pass through the crowd again, this time in a different direction; and this time, he’s not so bothered by the jostling of the bodies. Some brush up against him deliberately, running their hands through his and her hair as they pass. The more shameless ones make grabs for his crotch, but they all miss, and before he knows it, they’re through.

Looking back, it’s like having passed through a sea, never ending groups of people passing like waves over his head, asking politely to swallow him up.

There’s nothing but a wall in front of them.

At a second glance, blinking several times, he registers that they’re not alone at this wall. There are several couples hovering close to each other, some whispering in each others’ ears, some looking half way on their way to shagging against it.

It almost makes him smile. It’s a reminder of how dirty, gritty, and impolite sex is. It’s how sex works in the dregs; where if you take the time to enjoy it, the moment passes, and your partner finds someone else.

A body presses against his, wrapping its arms around his neck in greeting, and he responds automatically, the voices around him too dim to quite register. He assumes it’s Angelica at first, which is why he allows it when lips press against his roughly, pulling him into a far from chaste kiss.

But then his eyes flash open to see her standing over their shoulders, that ever present smile upon her lips, a teasing look in her eyes. He jerks away, wiping his mouth hurriedly as he stares at the person he’d just been kissing. It’s a man, small, slight, far too pretty for his own good. Dark hair, lips bruised, red, and full enough to be called cocksucking lips.

He opens his mouth to say something, to ask her who the fuck this is, but nothing comes out. She shushes him with a wave of her hand, her lips quirked as she backs away.  _‘Shag him. You need it,’_ she mouths, before disappearing, back into the waves.

Gaze drawn back to the boy -- and that’s what he is, couldn’t be older than early twenties -- he considers pushing him away. He’s too young, too pretty, too innocent, and he doesn’t even know why he’d want to fuck him.

But he’s pretty, lovely, even, like something out of the pages of a storybook. It makes him think of something for a second, of someone, but then those strange red lips are pressed against his again, shoving the thoughts and connection out of his head. His hands move to grip the boy’s waist, hold him there, licking his way into that mouth.

The kid moans in the way any might when suddenly shoved against a wall, breath being forced out of him, with a tongue licking away any prospects for more. But like the good masochist the kid must be, he just pushes harder back against Sebastian’s body, arching against him, hands tightening in the fabric of his shirt. He seems to whimper, begging without words for more.

In that mouth he remembers how long its been since he’s shagged anyone, and it’s been too long, which is why his cock hardens the way it does, pressing defiantly against the zip of his trousers at the first touch of the kid’s thigh.

He’s smaller than Sebastian had originally guessed, folding up easily into his body, which is half the reason why Sebastian jerks away after a moment. He presses a finger up to the kid’s lips, stopping him from complaining. Not that much of a coherent thought could have been formed, going by how widely blown his pupils are. No doubt under the influence of at least a couple different drugs, and far too much alcohol, all coming together to addle his mind with lust.

But it doesn’t matter, because the kid wants it, and Sebastian wants it, and the girl from before was the one that set it up. So he tugs him, coming just short of throwing the kid over his shoulder to get him out the door, pushing him immediately towards the brick wall of the alleyway. 

A voice catcalls after him, shut away as the door slams behind him, and he ignores it. 

It doesn’t matter, only the kid’s arching back matters, the way he seems willing to drop to his knees at the slightest request, suck Sebastian’s cock into his mouth, let him fuck him any way he’s wanted.

It’s thrilling.

In the light, the kid looks like someone else. A young, pretty, unsoiled version of someone Sebastian knew, dancing around in the back of his mind, yelling _‘hey, hey, it’s me! You like me, right? You should fuck me. We both know you want it!’_

He doesn’t press the kid to the ground, but it’s a near thing, instead his fingers move to picking away his clothes, one article at a time. It’s easy going. Seeming designed to be taken off with the least amount of effort possible, and before he knows it, the kid is wearing nothing but the skin tight vest wrapped around his chest.

It must be cold, but Sebastian doesn’t really care, his face buried in the kid’s neck, teeth sinking in roughly, until he tastes blood, and there’s a cry of pain above him. He soothes the wound after a moment, pulling back to lick at it, and shoves distracting fingers into his mouth. _“Suck,”_ he demands.

If the kid does, he doesn’t notice, suddenly too drawn in by a birthmark on the curve of his shoulder. It’s beautiful somehow, and it makes him shudder, whimpering slightly as his teeth dig into it viciously. He has to have it, has to taste it, and the next thing he knows, his mouth is clamped tightly around it, the kid’s back to his chest as he thrusts into him.

He must have prepared him at least a little, because it doesn’t hurt pushing in and out of his arse, and that’s all Sebastian can spare to care.

The kid fits underneath his body in a way that’s achingly perfect, his hole a snug fit, like a glove being worn for the first time, and he’s testing it out. Something drips down to his knees but he doesn’t pay attention, too intent on chewing on the kid’s neck, rocking into his body to draw out continued needy whimpers.  
  
“Please,” the boy gasps, “m-more,” and Sebastian gives it to him. Forgetting about how it might hurt, losing himself in the sensation of another body, a warm body against his, around his, under him, letting him take it. He pounds into it over and over, grinding into the warmth of that hole, crushing the skin into brick, fresh grunts of desperation on his lips.

He can’t help but whimper, in a way that’s different from the other ones in the alley, bouncing between the bricks. He whines, deep in his throat, and now he’s begging, begging for the thing that this isn’t, but he can’t remember. Begging for more. Begging for it to be right, be everything that he’s ever wanted it to be.

But it isn’t, and he tries harder, fucks harder, crushes harder, until something starts to crunch, and cries grow louder to overtake his. He ignores it, biting digging deeper with his cock and his teeth, finally what he wants.

It’s Jim.

Jim’s the one he’s fucking now.

With his perfect lips, the arching brow, those delicious hips, his dark brown hair, and short stature. He’s fucking Jim, and it’s okay now, everything’s perfect. Jim’s letting Sebastian fuck him into a wall, and it’s everything he’s ever dreamt it might be.

But Jim won’t want this to last forever, won’t give him a second try, so he works harder, fights to hear more of that crunching, of those shrill cries.

The body under his goes limp suddenly, and he guesses that Jim’s come, he’s had the orgasm fucked out of him, and Sebastian grins viciously. It means he can finish taking what he wants and come, too.

He does, teeth withdrawn so he can bury his nose in Jim’s hair, breathe him in as he fucks into that heavenly body, releasing into him like he’s coming home.


	9. Chapter 9

He doesn’t wake up the way that he should. It’s not a sudden jerk from sleep, or a gentle wave as he’s pulled back to a metaphorical shore of wakefulness. The first sensation that he registers is the soft touch of skin on his face, of fingers stroking gently down his cheek, tracing the shape. There’s a press of puffed air breathed out against his nostrils, and lips seem to brush along the corner of his lips.

It makes him groan, a low sound in the back of his throat, curling tighter into himself. A soothing tone playing against his ear, a quiet murmur of comfort, wordless as it dances past his eardrums. He licks his lips, trying to whisper something back, but it hushes him, a finger pressed across the cracked span of his lips.

_“Don’t try to speak,”_ the voice says, the words like music. They seem to shine from his unseen mouth, like light from the sun, and it makes him smile and want nothing more than to nuzzle his way closer to their warmth.

His hair is lightly tugged, brushing it away from his forehead, and he can hear the breathing grow heavier, more laboured. _“Sebastian,”_ the voice whispers, a pained sound. _“Why are you doing this to yourself, ‘Bastian?”_

_“I-”_ his own comes out almost without his consent, betraying him further as it cracks uselessly from his mouth.

_“I don’t understand it, ‘Bastian. I gave you so much. I gave you everything I could, with the hopes of seeing you...”_ there’s a quiet groan, a saddening noise of defeat, grunted against his forehead. _“I didn’t want this for you, Sebastian. So many things, but never this.”_

It makes him want to gasp, but he can’t manage the sound. The sheets underneath his body feel hot, too hot for his body, and they’re scratching him uncomfortably. It’s no longer a pleasant feeling, and he wants to writhe around, find a new position or run away. Run from the voice, from the reminders of his failures.

His body shakes as he lunges from the bed, desperate to get away from it, but it isn’t until he’s landed on his hands and knees on the ground that he opens his eyes. The first thing that he notices is the dirtied blood that seems to cake his hands, splattered and rubbed out along his clothes.

The smell comes next. Putrid and sickening, clogging his nose and throat just enough to make it difficult to breathe properly. His eyes grow wide as he looks around himself. The bed on which he’d been laying is not that of carefully laundered, warm and cozy sheets and blankets. But that of ripped open bags of garbage, rotting foods that could be as much as weeks old.

It brings a sick feeling from his stomach to his throat, like acid pouring its way up through the tubes, and for more than a moment, he comes incredibly close to heaving out everything onto the ground beside him

The only thing that really stops it is the chill in the air around him, bringing shivers to his spine once he notices it, that threaten to make his body fall over in the shaking convulsions. He stands, shakily, the only thought on his mind how quickly he can get away, get back to his flat, so he can shower. He needs more than anything to bathe off the vile stench that seems to have permeated his skin; scrub it from his body until he’s properly clean.

Only he can’t, his body betrays him further, his legs too shaky to stand on their own, like they were not meant to carry any sort of weight for more than a few seconds. He has to catch himself, leaning heavily with one hand against the brick wall.

Breath coming in harshly through his nose, he licks his lips, finding them to be unpleasantly sticky, like the rest of his body feels.

He wants, suddenly, even more than the shower, the warmth of water, to be able to curl up into himself. To make a comfortable cocoon out of something, out of anything, and hide inside it. To wish himself away from here, wherever here is, and never have to come back.

But nothing comes for him, and he can’t stay where he is, no matter how much his stomach protests as he pushes himself away from the wall, stumbling on still unsteady legs away from the bed he’d made for himself.

It comes as an unpleasant shock when he stumbles across something large strewn across the ground only a couple of yards from where he’d been laying. He’s only just able to keep his balance and stop, staring incredulously at what can only be a body. Mostly naked, bloodied, neck not so much snapped as mutilated, much in the same way the rest of it looks.

Like it’s been-

That’s where he loses it, the rush of memories from the night before swarming back on him, and he more or less falls against the bin near him, heaving acid and bile. He retches for what feels like hours, but can only be a matter of minutes, until he can hardly choke for how the muscles in his throat ache.

It’s in the light of day that he looks now, at the boy, his mind no longer so heavily impaired by the toxic mixture of grief and alcohol. It looks nothing like Jim.

 

**> <><><**

 

“I dreamt about him again last night.”

There’s a long pause, interrupted when she clears her throat, looking up at him from her notes. She’s frowning, glasses perched comfortably on her nose as her gaze pierces him. She looks distrustful. “What did you dream?” she asks, pen poised on the pad.

“I dreamt...I dreamt of silence...” his eyes are closed, hands crossed over his chest, breathing coming in soft, regular intervals. He licks his lips, chewing over his words. ”Of this stunning clarity where suddenly the whole world made sense. It wasn’t about me, it wasn’t about anyone else, it was the way every thread wove together and...it was the world. My world. And he was in it.”

The pen scratches quickly across the paper for a long minute before she stops, looking up again.“And what did he do in the dream?”

He chuckles, hollow sounding, and opens his eyes. There’s a crack in the ceiling directly in his line of sight and he stares at it, head tilted minutely. A frown furrows his eyebrows, and he pulls his lower lip between his teeth in contemplation. “He was...he was alive. And- and I...he...” he can’t quite seem to find the right words. They don’t make him choke up, like they used to, but they fall flat from his lips, not seeming the right ones for what he’s trying to say.

“It’s all right,” she interrupts, her sigh disguised with a cough. “Tell me more about the world in the dream. Explain it to me.”

It makes him pause, frown deepening. The crack stays the same, but he can’t take his eyes off it. It’s the most interesting thing in the room. The beat of his heart quickens suddenly, seeming to skip once. “I don’t understand it anymore. The world I dreamt of.”

It had made sense when he woke up, staring at a ceiling like this one. It doesn’t have the crack, instead it’s mottled with stains and a bullet hole. When he’d tried to analyse the dream, it had slipped away from his grasp. The idea of it still made sense, but he couldn’t pinpoint anything specific, or why.

“Don’t you?” she asks, pen scratching faster now. She doesn’t look up, continuing to write.

“And all it did,” he doesn’t notice, breathing out slowly. His eyes start to squint together, seeing if the shape of the crack might change if he stares at it long enough. “Was leave me standing in front of a shattered mirror, staring at my hazy reflection.”

The pen hesitates. The frown can be heard in her voice. “What did you see in that reflection?”

“I saw...” he swallows, voice threatening to crack. “I saw someone that didn’t make sense. It was my face, but I was utterly...I was just ruined.”

His eyes shut, jaw tightening, teeth grinding together. His chest doesn’t hurt the way it had before, the trademark emptiness is gone. In its place is something else, something he can’t come close to describing or understanding.

It feels as if his entire body has been disassembled, one piece and part at a time, every single thing wrapped carefully in brown paper, folded up inside boxes, shut away in the back of a wardrobe somewhere.

There’s a long pause, the only sound in the room is their steady breathing, and then the fabric of her skirt rubbing against her chair as she shifts, crossing her legs. The pen picks back up, scratching slowly this time, more hesitantly. “And how did that make you feel?” she prods. The noise of a faraway car alarm sounds outside, and her eyes flick over to the window. “To see yourself as ruined?”

There isn’t the slightest hesitation in his reply, sliding from his lips. “I didn’t care.” He wets his lips, eyes opening again. The crack seems to have moved.

“Why do you think that is?” The sound of the pen has entirely stopped. It’s set down carefully beside the sheet. Her eyes are focused on him warily, and her stomach growls. She glances at the door, mentally calculating how long until the appointment ends.

“...because it just doesn’t matter anymore.”

She looks back at him, eyebrows sliding together into a half-frown. “...Sebastian?” she asks, lips parted. “Why doesn’t it matter?”

There’s a long pause.

He breaks it with a quiet laugh. “I don’t think he matters anymore.” He murmurs, twisting his head to stare idly at her. There are only a few minutes left before he can leave. Shifting further, he twists his limbs until his feet are on the ground, sitting on the sofa instead of strewn across it. “Now he’s just a dream from a life I used to have.”

There’s another pause.

“I don’t want to live for him anymore,” he continues, swallowing hard. His pupils are dilated, and he breathes out slowly, eyes fixed on the blurred pane of the glass window.

“But do you-”

His phone rings, interrupting her. It plays The Bee Gees, making her hesitate. Stayin’ Alive is one of her favourite songs.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this.” He offers her a halfway apologetic smile, eyes dazed as he stands, reaching into his pocket to lift out the phone. The cover is black and it’s scratched up, a faint red stain in one of the corners.

“I’ll see you next week, Sebastian. Don’t forget to do what we talked about.”

“Yeah?” he answers the phone, eyes on the door as he steps away, waving her off with his hand.

****  


**> <><><**

****  


She doesn’t think of him again until the next day, when she opens her morning newspaper to an article about the man who jumped off the roof of St Barts.

It’s presumed that it’s a copycat, someone looking to follow in the footsteps of the disgraced Sherlock Holmes, and it makes her click her teeth regretfully.

Her husband kisses her on the cheek, squeezing her shoulders together, and asks her what’s the matter.

“Remember the story about that high profile criminal who’d convinced the police he was a detective when he was really committing all the crimes?” she asks him, turning her head to press a kiss to his neck.

“Yeah, I remember. What about him?” he pulls away, moving back to the kitchen as the kettle whistles.

“Copycat killed himself. His name was...” she frowns, hesitating as she looks for the name. “Moran. Sebas-” she freezes, feeling a shiver run down her spine at it. “He was...he was one of my patients.”

 

_**/End** _

 


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